Inheritance
by ChristineX
Summary: COMPLETE! Sequel to Only Eyes to See. Sauron has followed Sarah to this world and has possessed the body of her best friend. Must she fight the Dark Lord alone, or will she get help from an unexpected quarter? Rated M for sex & violence.
1. Chapter 1

Because you asked for it. ;-) Actually, I was shocked by how many people begged for a sequel to _Only Eyes to See_, but I decided I couldn't leave everyone hanging like that!

This is very marginally LOTR, since it takes places in this world, in the present day, but since our ol' buddy Sauron is still hanging around, I guess it still fits into that category.

* * *

One: Face of a Stranger

POSSESSION

**1 a** : the act of having or taking into control **b** : control or occupancy of property without regard to ownership **c** : OWNERSHIP **d** : control of the ball or puck; also : an instance of having such control (as in football) scored on their first two possessions

**2** : something owned, occupied, or controlled : PROPERTY

**3 a** : domination by something (as an evil spirit, a passion, or an idea) **b** : a psychological state in which an individual's normal personality is replaced by another

* * *

Do you know what terror is? 

Terror is looking at the face of a person you've known for more than half your life and seeing someone -- some_thing_ -- else staring back at you.

Terror is finding out that the struggle you thought was finally over had actually just begun.

Worst of all, though, is realizing that -- for the moment, anyway -- there isn't a goddamn thing you can do about it.

Exhausted beyond comprehension, beyond caring, I fell asleep last night after he was done with me. Sometimes sleep is the only refuge one has.

I awoke this morning to a room in a house I knew almost as well as my own, and a face that should have been familiar but somehow wasn't. Oh, he looked just about the same -- it was my perception of what lay within that had been altered forever.

Brown eyes met mine, and he gave me a slow, mocking smile, the sort of smile I'd never seen on my friend Mike's lips before. "Sleep well?"

"How did you do it?" I asked, not bothering to answer his question. At least he hadn't bothered to remove the T-shirt I had put on before coming to bed last night. Knowing I was decently covered, I sat up and glared at him as he continued to lie there on his side, looking lazy and relaxed.

"Do what?"

"Get here! Get in there -- " and I pointed at his temple.

"Caught in your slipstream," he replied. "In a choice between oblivion and this -- " He looked down at himself and frowned slightly; probably he was contrasting the difference between his previous godlike physique and Mike's somewhat underdeveloped torso. Mike had always been a skinny kid. " -- I chose this."

As if from some hideous nightmare, I recalled feeling Sauron's brutal grasp on my wrist as we sank into the lava within Mount Doom. I thought in death I would be free of him -- but I hadn't died. Instead, I had come home.

Unfortunately, I hadn't returned alone.

And now the Dark Lord I thought I had finally vanquished had managed to take up lodging in the body of my best friend, a guy who would no more have lifted a hand against me than run over a box of kittens in the street.

I wanted to cry. I wanted to return to the blackness of sleep, where I could forget that it was Mike's lips that had touched me last night, his body that entered mine, even if it were being controlled by someone else. Instead, I forced myself to stare back at him and asked, "Is he in there? Is he...gone?"

"Not completely. I can feel him struggling against me, but he is weak." He sat up and met my gaze with a sort of horrible frankness. "And everything he knows, I know -- all his knowledge of this world is mine as well. I know what he thinks, what he feels, how he reacts. It will be easy enough to be him, I think."

I listened in mounting horror. No wonder he had deceived me at first -- ever since I had returned to San Marino Sauron had been in Mike's body, speaking with his voice, using the words he would have used. And if he could fool me, who had known him since the sixth grade, then he would be able to fool just about anyone.

"This is a strange world," he went on, his tone musing. "So full of machines, so filled with inventive ways to destroy one another. Saruman would have enjoyed it very much."

"Yeah, I'm sure it's right up your alley, too," I retorted.

"You misunderstand me." He sat up and pushed the covers back; unlike me, he was naked, and I quickly looked away. Even though I knew intellectually it wasn't really Mike here in bed with me, I still didn't want to see his unclothed body.

Staring down at the blanket in my lap, I said, "I doubt that."

He stood and retrieved the blousy white shirt he had worn the night before, from the hobbit-style costume I had made for Mike myself, then drew it on. "It was never about destruction. Why destroy a thing when you can control it instead?"

To that I had no ready answer. I felt sick, but at the same time his words did explain a lot. I still couldn't begin to make sense of what had happened, of what he had done to me, but I had begun to understand that he used me the way he did because he knew that was what would hurt me the most. Murdering someone is so final, after all. If he'd killed me after he murdered Gorendil he would have lost the chance to humiliate me over and over again. I certainly hadn't fooled myself into thinking it was because he truly wanted me or had the slightest ounce of regard for me. And maybe it was also the novelty of simply being able to indulge in such a physical act after millennia in a distorted form that allowed no such diversions.

"Outraged, horror-struck Sarah," he mocked, watching me with eyes that were no longer Mike's. "Filled with anger over the use of her friend. What would you say, Sarah, if I told you I had only given this friend of yours what he wanted all along?"

That was too much. "You're lying," I said, the words forcing their way out from between clenched teeth. "Isn't that what Aragorn called you? The 'father of lies'?"

"What many people call lies are often just inconvenient truths," he replied. "I suppose this is something you simply did not want to know. Perfect Sarah, unattainable Sarah, the one thing he wanted and was afraid to take for his own. Do not call it a lie, not when I have been in his mind and you have not." His dark eyes caught mine, cold and cruel, incongruous in the boyish face. "So moan and weep that I have taken free will from this 'Mike' of yours, but my control of his mind has given him something he would never have otherwise known."

I wanted to scream at him to shut up. I wanted to retort that he had no idea what he was talking about, that he was telling me these horrible lies just to torture me further. But I couldn't. Somehow I knew that this time he was telling the truth. Why bother with falsehoods when the real story can hurt just as much?

With Mike I knew I had always let myself see what I wanted to see. The truth was, although I might have been closer to him than to anyone else except maybe my parents, I'd never had any romantic feelings for him. And since I didn't feel that way about him, I made myself believe that he must feel the same way about me. Otherwise, the tension and the guilt would have been too much.

And Mike, being the gentleman that he was, hadn't pressed the issue. No wonder he'd always made vague comments about there being "plenty of time for that later" when I gently teased him about not having a girlfriend. He could have, too -- despite his general geekiness when it came to Lord of the Rings or Star Wars or whatever particular fanboy diversion claimed his attention at the moment, and despite his overwhelming science brain, he was still cute in a sort of rumpled boyish way. I'd known several girls over the years who had been interested in him and who got rebuffed -- in the politest way, of course -- when they tried to make any advances.

Well, at least now I knew why.

"I suppose you think you're really clever," I said, wanting to direct the conversation away from these uncomfortable revelations. I pushed myself out of bed and went over to the chair where the gown I had worn the night before was still draped. "Escaping death, riding on my coattails back to this cozy world, getting a nice young body to inhabit. How long do you think you're really going to get away with this?"

"As long as necessary. Tell me, Sarah -- if you tried to explain the truth of my presence here to anyone, who would believe you?"

He'd put his finger on the heart of my dilemma. I knew if I tried to tell someone about what had happened to me, most likely they'd send me off for a nice rest somewhere so I could get pumped full of anti-psychotics.

"I'll figure out some way to prove you aren't who you say you are," I replied, but the words sounded feeble even to me.

"Indeed." His gaze moved to the folds of filmy silver-shot material I held in my arms. "What are you doing with that?"

"I'm going home," I said. Suddenly I wanted nothing more than to get out of there. Let Sauron enjoy cleaning up the mess from the party -- if he were going to steal Mike's life, then he could deal with the less pleasant aspects of it as well.

"Are you?" The words were soft, but I could hear the threat in them.

I flung the dress down on the floor and glared across the room at him. At that moment I really didn't care what he did to me. "Yes, I am. I haven't seen my parents in months, and I'm getting tired of these mind games. I want my own house, and my own room with my own bed." Pausing, I took a breath. Before I said the words I hadn't realized how much I just wanted to be _me_ again, Sarah Monaghan, the student who lived at home with her parents, not the girl locked in a battle of wills with the former Lord of Mordor...not even the woman mourning the death of her lover, the man who had cast aside centuries of servitude to Sauron in an attempt to restore freedom to Middle Earth.

Of course my outburst did nothing to move the young man who watched me out of a stranger's eyes. "You are overwrought," he said coldly.

"Oh, I'll give you 'overwrought'!" I burst out, then bent down and snatched up the heavy silver belt from where it had fallen to the floor and had gotten tangled in the fabric of my gown. Without even stopping to think what I was doing, I hurled the length of linked silver medallions at him.

The belt connected against his shoulder and part of his upper chest with an audible _smack_.

"Ouch!" he yelped, sounding almost like Mike in that instant of shocked surprise.

"Hurt, didn't it?" I asked, glad that finally I had been able to get back even an ounce of the pain he'd inflicted on me. "News flash, Sauron dear -- you're in a mortal body now. You can get hurt just like anyone else."

Although I had hoped that statement would knock some sense into him, I should have known better. Almost before the last word had left my mouth he had flung himself across the room and grasped me by the arm.

"That may be true," he hissed. "But you can be hurt as well. So take care, Sarah."

"The rules are a little different here," I said, wrenching my arm from his grasp. I refused to let him see how shaken I was. "We've got something called the _police_. You touch me again, and I'll file a report, so help me God."

That took him aback a bit. I could almost see him stopping to think about what I had just said as he accessed the wealth of memories and knowledge in Mike's brain.

"And by the way," I added, "what you pulled on me last night is also illegal around here. I might be forced to mention that, too."

Again I just got a furious silence as he ticked over the unfamiliar information in his mind. Then he smiled unpleasantly. "Perhaps. Although that would be your word against mine -- and I somehow get the impression that a young woman isn't always taken seriously when she accuses a long-time friend of that sort of assault. People lose control at parties, you know...the alcohol, the relaxed atmosphere..."

How I hated him. I hated him for continuing to outmaneuver me. I couldn't even argue with him, because a similar extremely unpleasant incident had taken place at my high school during my junior year. But since the ones being accused consisted of several members of the football team, and a lot of drinking had been going on, no one would back up the girl's story. She'd finally transferred to another school, and I remembered thinking how glad I was that I had decided to stay home that night. Otherwise, it could have been me...

I wouldn't admit that he could be right. Instead I said only, "I don't care. It's not as if I don't have physical evidence against you, if it comes down to it. But I'll leave you alone if you leave me alone." _Until I can figure out some way to knock you out of Mike's body and back into whatever hell you deserve_, I added mentally.

My words obviously didn't set well with him. His scowl deepened as he glared back at me. "Leave you alone?" he asked. "When you destroyed my Ring, after I had finally regained it after searching for it for centuries? When you lied to me, deceived me, assaulted me? No, Sarah, I'm afraid you don't understand me very well. If my only pleasure in this world is to come from causing you torment, then that is my goal." He stepped closer as I stared at him in numb agony. "And I think I know best how to continue that torment." With those words he reached out and ran one finger down my cheek; I shut my eyes briefly at the feel of his flesh against my mine. It brought back memories of too many other times when his touch had been far less gentle.

"I'll fight you," I whispered.

"Go ahead. I may enjoy it." By now he was so close I could feel the heat of his breath against my cheek. "But know this, Sarah Monaghan -- do not think that this is the only body I can inhabit. Although it pains you to see your friend used so, how much worse would it be if I were to move on to someone else...perhaps your father?"

The horror and revulsion which rose up in me at that statement seemed to have destroyed my power of speech. I could only stare at him, shaking, as he continued, still with that repulsive smile distorting Mike's usually friendly mouth, "That might be too much even for you, wouldn't it? To have me touch you with your father's hands, your father's mouth -- "

"Stop it!" I screamed, putting my hands to my ears. God, what had I ever done to deserve this?

To my surprise, he actually did break off after my outburst. For a few seconds he watched me closely, maybe to make sure I wasn't going to put forth any more protests. But that last threat had almost undone me. I hadn't thought there could be anything worse than allowing Sauron -- even Sauron in Mike's body -- to keep abusing me, but he'd destroyed that notion pretty effectively.

"We understand one another," he said at last.

"Yes," I replied dully. Anything to stop this confrontation, to get me out of here for a while so I could try to put the shattered fragments of my life back together.

He nodded, looking smug. How I wished I could smack him across the face, hit him hard enough to knock Sauron's possessing spirit right out of Mike's slender frame, but I knew that was unlikely.

"Best put that gown back on," he said. "We wouldn't want your parents to think you were up to anything unusual last night, would we?"

"'We'?" I echoed. My brain felt as if only half its neurons were firing.

"Of course. I will come with you." A look of unholy glee lit up his eyes. "I can't wait to meet your parents."

* * *

Even with Sauron/Mike's unwelcome presence at my side, I couldn't help feeling a sudden rush of relief as I made my way up the front steps to my house. It all looked so normal, so unchanged. In my own mind months had passed, but here only one night had gone by. The rows of roses bordering the front walk blazed away as only roses in Southern California can still do during late September, and the house as a whole looked as friendly and white and Cape Cod-y as it always had. I know in other parts of Southern California the architecture has been overrun with tract after tract of cookie-cutter "Spanish-style" houses, but many of the homes in San Marino were built in the 1920s and '30s and reveled in all sorts of styles: Colonial, bungalow, Tudor (like Mike's place), Mediterranean. 

I could feel my throat grow thick with emotion as I looked at my house, with its blue front door and shutters and flame-colored roses gleaming in the morning sun. But I choked the tears back -- this was going to be difficult enough without my mother noticing my red nose and puffy eyes.

Sauron/Mike -- oh, hell, I'm just going to refer to him as "Smike" from here on out -- also looked up at the house with some curiosity. Oh, Mike had been over to my place hundreds of times, so of course Sauron would have had memories to access, but memories are never quite the same as experiencing something for yourself. Which was probably why he had tagged along, although I'm sure the discomfort factor had quite a bit to do with it as well.

I fumbled in my pouch for the key to the front door, then let myself in, with Smike following behind. Since it was a warm but not hot day, the windows were open, letting in a breeze that smelled of fresh-mown grass. No doubt my mother had gotten on my father's case to mow the backyard. We had gardeners do the front, but my dad didn't want them in back -- I think he worried that they'd do something to the über-schmancy barbecue he bought at the beginning of the summer.

"I'm home!" I called out. I said the same thing pretty much every time I came home, but this time the words carried so much more meaning to me. To be honest, somehow it felt as if I'd been gone far longer than the several months I'd spent in Middle Earth. Could it have been such a short amount of time? Could I have only known Gorendil for a span of weeks that could be counted on both hands?

The ache hit me again, and I had to clench my jaw against the pain of it. Why couldn't it have been him inside Mike's body? Oh, I would have missed Gorendil's face, the calm gray eyes, the scar that marred his cheek, but at least I would still have had Gorendil's soul. We could have had each other.

But instead --

My mother stuck her head out of her office, pushing the glasses she used for reading or working on the computer back up on her head as she glanced out into the foyer to see Smike and me standing there. For some reason she did look slightly different, until I remembered that she'd had her hair cut and some highlights put in just two days before the party, and I still hadn't gotten used to her new look.

"I was wondering when you were going to make it back here," she remarked. "Overdid it last night, Sarah?"

She sounded less than thrilled with me, and I wondered what sort of story Smike had fed her when he called the evening before. For some reason that irritated me to no end, considering that I had drunk very moderately at the party. Was it my fault that I had tripped and fallen into an alternate dimension?

"Well, you know what they say -- don't drink and drive," I said lamely, knowing that it was no use to protest that I hadn't been drunk at all.

Her gaze moved past me to Smike. "Thanks for giving her some crash space, Mike. We've got some strata left over from breakfast -- why don't you two go help yourselves?"

"Well, actually -- " I began, about to tell her that Mike was just dropping me off and that he had to get back home and finish cleaning up.

"Sounds great," Smike cut in, and then he hesitated and looked down at the floor, doing such a good imitation of Mike when he's feeling awkward that I couldn't help staring at him. "But there's something we -- I mean, Sarah and I -- wanted to talk to you and Mr. Monaghan about. Is he here?"

"Yes, he's out back." She looked from Mike to me and back, still with the pleasant half-smile on her lips. Mike had always been a favorite of my parents; if I had a dollar for every time they remarked "I don't know why you don't go out with _him_" I'd have enough money to buy a new car. "This sounds serious, Mike."

"Well, sort of." His puppy-brown eyes looked guileless. "Maybe we can wait for you in the living room?"

"All right." My mother looked slightly puzzled, but she came out into the hallway and moved on into the dining room, where a set of French doors opened up onto the deck. Her voice drifted back to us. "There's some sun tea in the fridge if you're thirsty -- "

After she had disappeared I turned to Smike and demanded, "What the hell is going on?"

"You'll see. But in the meantime, could you get me some of that tea? It sounded delicious."

"You probably don't even know what tea _is_," I muttered under my breath, but I went ahead and stalked into the kitchen and fetched a pair of glasses out of the cupboard, then filled them with ice from the refrigerator door and poured out some tea from the flowered glass container that was a permanent fixture in the fridge during the summer. Shoving Smike's glass into his hand, I continued on into the living room and sat down on the couch, hoping that choosing the larger piece of furniture over the love seat would give him the idea that I didn't want him sitting too close to me. Of course he didn't take the hint, but instead positioned himself only a few inches away. I couldn't shift my weight without worrying about my thigh brushing against his.

"Use a coaster," I snapped. "My mother will kill you if you get rings on her coffee table."

Without comment Smike leaned forward and picked up a coaster decorated with a copy of French wine label and set the glass of iced tea down on it. The whole time a tiny smile played around the corner of his mouth, and I knew he must have something horrible planned or he wouldn't have been smirking like that.

I lifted the tea to my mouth and drank, but even though the cool liquid felt good going down, I barely tasted it. What the hell was he up to? What could he be planning that involved speaking to both my parents?

My mother entered the living room, with my father just a pace or so behind her. He looked sweaty and mussed, graying dark hair sticking to his brow, the front of his faded polo shirt blotched with perspiration. Obviously he had been out back tending to the yard; he always got that irritated expression while doing "chores," although this particular task, as my mother always managed to point out, he'd brought on himself.

"Mike, Sarah," he said briefly, before settling down on the loveseat next to my mother, who had just sat down as well.

"Mr. Monaghan," Smike said formally.

They sat there gazing back at us, my nice, normal, attractive parents, a couple who could have been the poster children for healthy upper-middle-class Southern California living. Really, the whole scene looked like something out of some _Lifetime_ made-for-TV movie, right down to the carefully arranged Sheraton-style furniture in the living room. For half a second I almost expected some set designer to pop in and move the bowl of flowers on the side table a fraction of an inch to the left.

"So what's up?" my father asked. "Not that I don't mind the break from the mowing, but -- "

"Yes, Mike, why don't you tell them?" I asked, with poisonous sweetness. The suspense was killing me.

Unruffled, he turned toward my parents, practically radiating friendly awkwardness. "Well, this is sort of tough, and maybe a little unexpected -- "

"It's all right, Mike," my mother said. Her voice was warm and encouraging; years of teaching high school hadn't jaded her yet, and she had a knack of relating to kids our age and younger, a way about her that always affirmed that she was the adult without being remotely condescending. "You can tell us -- haven't we been practically family for years?"

At that he smiled. "You're right, Mrs. Monaghan. Only now, well, I guess we won't be _practically_ family anymore." He paused; only I caught the swift sidelong gaze he shot me, one of triumph.

He couldn't. He _wouldn't_ --

Still with that boyish clumsiness that somehow managed to be endearing -- if you didn't know what was actually motivating it -- he leaned forward and announced, "Last night I asked Sarah to marry me. And, well -- she said yes."


	2. Chapter 2

I actually had this chapter written when I posted Chapter One, but I thought I'd better space them out a bit. Gimli's Trouser Beard, your advice on how Sarah should bait Sauron cracked me up, but it also proves that evil minds think alike, because my own ideas had already run in the same direction...

* * *

Two: Plans Within Plans

For the longest second silence stretched between us. Then my father blinked and said, "You _what_?"

My mother fastened me with one of her patented laser-beam blue-eyed stares, the type that had always reduced me to a quivering heap of truth-spouting Jello in the past. But I knew I couldn't let her read anything wrong in my face -- I had to keep up this charade for now at least. Sauron's hideous threat still reverberated inside my brain. Only by going along with this farce could I hope to keep my parents safe.

"I said yes," I stated, my voice sounding firm and confident enough -- I hoped.

Smike reached out and took my hand in his. I forced myself to keep from shuddering. "You know -- we just started talking last night, after everyone had left, and then it just sort of...happened."

From somewhere my mother produced a halfway convincing smile and said, "Not that we're unhappy with the news, but this just seems so out of the blue -- "

Although my mother didn't seem to be offering much in the way of protest, my father had no such scruples. He straightened, and gave Smike a very direct look, the one I had always thought of as his "lawyer stare."

I groaned mentally. Here came the cross-examination.

"You're both very young for this, don't you think?" asked my father. "Both still in school, no jobs -- "

"Actually, sir, I'm working as a teaching assistant at Caltech this year," Smike replied. "Besides, I already own my home -- "

My father steamrollered on. "And you think a teaching assistant's salary is enough to support the both of you?" He shot me a half-irritated, half-fond look. "Although we're certainly very proud of your talents, Sarah, the field you've chosen isn't exactly the steadiest thing in the world."

Smike cleared his throat. "Um, I can understand your concern, Mr. Monaghan, but I really don't think money will be an issue. The interest from my grandfather's trust will keep us quite comfortable even without my T.A.'s salary."

At the word "trust" my father seemed to go on the alert, like a dog who had just smelled a particularly juicy steak getting slapped down on the grill. I wouldn't call him exactly mercenary -- even though he had bailed out on the D.A.'s office fairly early in his career to go into entertainment law -- but on the other hand, he wasn't about to turn up his nose at the prospect of his daughter marrying someone with a trust fund.

"We wouldn't be getting married until April of next year anyway," I put in, fixing an expression of innocent enthusiasm on my face. If Smike wanted to play these games, fine. Let him find out I wasn't exactly going to remain in the stands and watch -- I planned to get down on the field and engage in a little scrimmage myself. "Not until after I graduate." FIDM didn't actually offer four-year degrees; I'd done my associate work in eighteen months, and the same for the advanced associate degree in film and television costume design that I was working on at the moment. That meant I'd be finished in mid-March instead of June; at the time I'd been happy with my accelerated schedule, but now I found myself wishing I'd stretched things out a bit more. At least then I could push this so-called wedding back until the end of June. But April was better than nothing.

Mike himself had done his undergraduate work in three years instead of four, so, although he was actually six months younger than I, he had already begun his post-graduate studies in theoretical physics, concentrating in quantum mechanics. And he wasn't bothering with a master's degree -- he'd gone straight into the doctoral program, which was a little unusual, but not unheard-of...especially for as brilliant a student as Mike.

I could feel Smike's fingers tighten around mine -- not enough to hurt, but definitely a warning squeeze. It seemed that I had irritated His Unholiness.

Score one for Sarah.

"Um...right," Smike managed, his earlier cheer sounding just a little ragged around the edges. "Sarah did insist on that."

"Well, good," my mother said. "No need for completely rushing into this, after all."

"Besides," I added, "Mike's such a guy -- he has no idea how much planning these sorts of things take. We have to find a site, a caterer, a florist -- and do I design my own dress or buy one? This happened so fast I don't even have a ring yet!"

Throughout this speech I could see Smike's smile falter a bit. No doubt Sauron hadn't been able to retrieve the intricacies of modern American wedding planning out of Mike's brain because Mike, being who he was, wouldn't have known about any of that stuff in the first place.

_Bitten off a bit more than you could chew, Sauron?_ I thought spitefully. _Just wait until I sic a wedding planner on you -- you're going to wish you were back in the Cracks of Doom!_

"Better lay off, Sarah," my father said, good humor somewhat restored now that he realized the two of us weren't going to be living in the basement and sponging off him. "Your fiancé's looking a little green around the gills."

"Sarah and I can handle most of that," my mother stated calmly, no doubt taking pity on who she thought was a poor kid who had suddenly realized it wasn't just going to be running off into the sunset and living happily ever after -- at least not until after we'd dealt with menus, place cards, tux rentals, and floral arrangements.

I wondered how calm she would sound if she found out the smiling boy who sat next to her daughter and held her hand was really a misplaced Dark Lord who had stolen this body to escape annihilation. Then again, knowing my mother, she'd probably sit down and have a nice chat with him and attempt to figure out the psychological reasons why he'd felt compelled to do such a thing in the first place. And once she was done with that, she'd list all the reasons why what he'd done was wrong and then tell him he really should vacate Mike's body because it was the Right Thing to Do.

Parents.

But I knew I didn't dare open my mouth, because I couldn't risk Sauron's retaliation. I had to pretend I was happy, that I wanted all this. However, that didn't mean I couldn't continue to stick pins into Smike at opportune moments.

"Well, I do want him to be involved," I said. "I'm not going to be one of those brides who makes all the decisions on her own and just wants the groom to show up on the wedding day and stand in the right spot."

Actually, Smike was looking very much as if he'd like me to be that exact sort of bride, but even he knew better than to say anything. Instead, he just nodded, his expression a bit dazed.

Then my mother gave me a slightly apologetic look. "And here we are grilling you two when we should be celebrating. We can work out all the details later -- let me check the fridge. I think we've still got a bottle of champagne left over from when we had the Fosters here for brunch -- " And she rose and disappeared in the direction of the kitchen, leaving the remaining three of us to stare at one another in uneasy silence.

For myself, I had no idea what Sauron's game was. Had he just thought this would be a good way to torment me, or had he experienced some doubt as to whether I might fly the coop at some point, consequences be damned? If that were the case, then he knew me even less well than he thought he did. None of this was Mike's fault, and I wasn't about to abandon him to perpetual possession by the Dark Lord of Mordor. Let Sauron think he was keeping me on a short leash -- once I had some quiet time to assess my options, I knew I'd be able to come up with some sort of plan. Maybe not a good one, but a plan nonetheless.

"Here we are," my mother said, returning with a tray on which clustered the Waterford champagne flutes a client had given my father a few Christmases back, along with a bottle of Moët. She set the tray down on the coffee table and picked up the champagne bottle, then looked over at Smike. "Would you like to do the honors, Mike?"

He flinched slightly, looking as if she just brandished an Elven blade at him. "Um, well, I'm not very good at that sort of thing -- "

"Let me," my father said, appropriating the champagne bottle and beginning to unwrap the foil.

"Thanks, Mr. Monaghan."

"No more of that." After removing the little wire basket from the top of the bottle, my father began to expertly maneuver the cork upward with both his thumbs. "Andrew, if you please. But not Andy. Only my mother calls me that."

"Sure, Mr. -- Andrew."

The cork popped out of the champagne with a minimum of fuss; my father was very good at opening champagne bottles without blowing holes in the ceiling or spraying alcohol all over the place. Both my mother and I approved of the technique, she because it preserved her décor, and me because no champagne got wasted that way.

He poured a good measure of pale golden liquid into each flute, then waited as we all picked up our glasses. "To Sarah and Mike," he said. "May you both have very many happy years together."

It was all I could do not to roll my eyes, but I knew I had to keep up the happy façade. I lifted the champagne flute to my lips and sipped the liquid within, feeling the soft effervescence tickle my palate. Champagne was actually the first alcohol I had ever drunk; my parents had let me taste it at a New Year's party when I was about fourteen, and I had loved it ever since. Too bad that what we were celebrating was such a complete lie.

Then I wondered how long it would take to actually come up with some effective way of getting Sauron evicted from Mike's body, and whether I'd actually have to go through with marrying him. Putting it off until April would help, since that was six months away, but what if I couldn't get him exorcised (for lack of a better word) by that time? Then I'd have to continue this insanity through to its logical conclusion. And if I ever did manage to succeed in banishing Sauron once and for all, then I'd have the fun of dealing with the aftermath.

I made a vow then that, no matter what happened, I wouldn't hit poor Mike up for alimony.

So we drank, and at one point my mother excused herself to fetch a calendar. "We really should set a date, Sarah," she said on her return. "Things book up so fast, especially in the spring."

My mother spread the calendar open on the coffee table. I had to force myself to look enthused, since of course I hoped to have everything handled long before then.

"Not the seventh," she mused. "Easter weekend -- too much going on. What about April fourteenth?"

My father gave her a pained look. "I'm already taking a big enough hit on April fifteenth," he remarked. "Think we could move the money drain to another weekend?"

"Andrew," she said reprovingly.

Until he'd made that statement, I really hadn't stopped to think that my parents would be footing the bill for all this. As it had been Smike's idea, I just figured he would pay for everything. But traditionally the bride's parents were supposed to pay for the wedding, and I had a feeling that, even though he complained about it now, my father might be stubbornly orthodox on this subject. It wasn't as if my parents couldn't afford it, but it just seemed plain wrong for them to throw away so much money on such a bogus venture.

"What about March thirty-first?" I asked quickly. "I'm done with school on the twenty-first anyway."

Both my parents looked over at Smike, as if to make sure that was all right with him. "Well, I don't know..." he began, frowning a little as if he were trying to frantically page through the random facts in Mike's head in order to find the bit that contained Caltech's academic calendar. The frown deepened. "That's right after start of spring term, but it should be OK."

"We'll just postpone the honeymoon until after school's out," I said sweetly. "Sound good to you, dear?"

His eyes narrowed a bit at the "dear," but he nodded. "Sure, that could work."

"Great," my mother said. "I'll go ahead and get the word out."

And knowing the family grapevine, that meant relatives all up and down California would soon be penciling in March thirty-first on their calendars as the date that Sarah would be walking down the aisle with Mike Westerfield. I knew the inevitable "but weren't they just friends?" questions would come up, and then I'd have to launch into all sorts of plausible but completely false explanations. I couldn't tell anyone the truth, or my most likely occupation on March thirty-first would be staring at the walls of my rubber room.

With an air of finality, my mother wrote "Big Day!" on the little square containing the number thirty-one, and my fate was sealed. I could tell Smike felt more relaxed; when my parents weren't looking, he shot me a triumphant glance and smiled slightly. Bastard.

After that the talk flowed into normal chitchat, with my mother already postulating possible venues and both males in the room getting that slightly glazed look most men do whenever women start talking about "girl stuff." I nodded in the appropriate places and told myself it really didn't matter -- I'd let my parents settle on a budget and just go with the flow. And if I were lucky, maybe all they'd lose over the whole mess was a couple of security deposits.

Then it was time to go, and just after I rose from the couch Smike said, "Why don't you get your things together, Sarah? I'll wait down here."

Confused, I stared down at him. "My things?"

He gave my parents an indulgent smile, as if to excuse my absent-mindedness. "We talked about this last night -- remember how you agreed it was better for you to just move in with me now that we're engaged?"

My stomach wanted to drop to the floor. Of course I should have known that he would never let me come home and settle in comfortably to wait for our "wedding." No, he had meant to take ownership of me from the very start.

Quelling the urge to pick up the empty champagne bottle and smash it over his head, I managed to reply, sounding like a complete idiot even to myself, "I totally forgot -- my bad!"

Both my parents looked less than thrilled. "I really don't see the reason -- " my mother began.

"Oh, Susan, this is the twenty-first century, isn't it?" Smike cut in. "I mean, you really don't think Sarah was saving herself for her wedding night, do you?"

If the floor had swallowed me up at that point I think I would have been grateful. Hot color flooded into my cheeks, and I blurted, "I'll just run upstairs and get my stuff," then bolted from the room. I caught a glimpse of my father giving Smike his best "you're grounded for life!" glare before I tore up the stairs.

Because I just hadn't been humiliated quite enough so far, right? How did that bastard know exactly the wrong thing to say? Oh, I'm sure my parents had a pretty good idea that I wasn't exactly a virgin anymore, but it's one thing to have a suspicion and then to have your daughter's fiancé casually put it out there as if he were stating the mileage on his car. And since I hadn't come home last night, I was fairly sure my parents were putting two and two together and getting a number they didn't like very much.

Still with cheeks burning, I pulled my little rollaway suitcase out the closet and began stuffing clothes into it at random -- underwear and socks, jeans, T-shirts, a couple of sweaters, an extra pair of shoes. Of course I'd have to come back in the near future and really gather up all my belongings, but I knew Smike was just trying to make a point -- he'd asked me to jump, and I hadn't even inquired as to how high. I'd just thrown myself off the cliff.

I went into the bathroom that adjoined my bedroom and scooped up my toothbrush and toothpaste, container of floss, deodorant, lip balm: all the little oddments that I thought I needed to get through the day...until I'd spent months in Middle Earth and realized how unessential most of that stuff really is. But this wasn't Middle Earth, and I wanted all my modern-life security blankets with me. I wouldn't fool myself into believing that they would help me through the ordeal that lay ahead, but even those traces of normality might somehow keep me from completely losing my mind.

For a second I thought, _What if this is the dream? What if I'm only having a nightmare, and in the morning I'll wake up to find Gorendil lying beside me, the two of us still safe in Minas Tirith?_

How I wished it were true. But I looked around the bathroom, saw the daubs of three different shades of blue paint near the ceiling on the wall opposite the mirror where my mother had been testing shades for a minor remodel, and realized I really was home. Not that it was my home anymore. No, Sauron had managed to neatly snatch that refuge away from me as well.

I descended the stairs, bumping my suitcase loudly along behind me. Smike and my parents came to meet me in the foyer; my father still looked irritated, but, with standard uptight WASPy scene-avoidance fully engaged, was maintaining a stormy silence.

My mother also seemed somewhat subdued, but she did say, "Are you sure, Sarah? After all, of course I knew you would move out some day, but -- "

"I'm sure, Mom," I said mechanically. "Besides, I'll only be a mile away. It's not as if I'm moving to the East Coast or something."

She blinked. Were those tears in her eyes? I supposed it would be a big deal for your only child to be moving out, even if she happened to be staying in the same town. I know I hadn't expected it to be like this -- I'd thought I'd graduate, get some exciting job in film or television, and move to the Fairfax District or someplace like that to be closer to the studios. I certainly never expected to be moving in with Mike, let alone engaged to him.

Not that it was really Mike who'd be sharing the pretty Tudor-style house with me...

All false solicitousness, Smike bent over and took the suitcase from me. "Let me get that."

I let him take it. As much as I had yearned to go home and see my parents, by that point I just wanted to get out of there. The constant strain of having to pretend in front of them was already getting to me. At least when I was alone with Sauron I didn't have to hide anything.

So I gave my mom a hug, and then my father, and after a few awkward comments like "I'll call you" and "take care" Smike and I got safely out of there. Only after he had stowed the suitcase in the trunk of my bright blue New Beetle and then slid into the passenger seat did I turn on him.

"What the hell was that all about?"

"Careful, Sarah -- your parents are watching." He smiled and waved out of the passenger window.

I turned the key in the ignition and viciously shifted into reverse. An SUV on steroids lumbered past, and I had to wait, fuming, in the driveway until it was safe to pull out into the street. Then I put the car in drive and took off at a rate of speed that would definitely have caught the attention of San Marino's finest if any of them had happened to be in the vicinity.

"Married!" I exploded, once the car had safely rounded a curve and we were out of eyeshot. "What put that idea into your diseased brain?"

His eyes remained fixed on the streets as they passed by, on expensive home after expensive home, all fronted by professionally landscaped yards, some with new, pricey vehicles gleaming in the driveways. Without turning to look at me, he said, "It seemed the easiest way to keep you close."

"You could have just made me move in with you."

He finally turned and gave me an unpleasant smile. "Guess I'm just old-fashioned."

I knew then I wouldn't get a straight answer out of him. Whatever he was up to, he certainly wasn't about to tell me anything.

We drove the rest of the way in silence, until I pulled up into the driveway of Mike's home. Again, it looked completely normal, except for the drooping "Prancing Pony" banner that still hung above the front door, a relic of the party from the night before. Of course you couldn't tell from looking at it that an evil entity had taken over the body and soul of the person who lived in the house.

Now that my parents weren't around to observe, Smike let me retrieve my own luggage from the trunk. I didn't bother to protest.

He unlocked the front door and led me inside. Christ, what a mess. When we'd left I hadn't paid much attention to the detritus that littered the living and dining rooms, since I had thought -- dummy me -- that I was going home permanently. Now, however, it had become painfully obvious that some serious clean-up work was in store.

But first things first. I followed Smike into his bedroom and dumped the suitcase on the bed. I'd never been in here before -- Mike had always been careful to keep me out of his room -- and it looked much the same as the rest of the house: carefully maintained antiques, hardwood floor with a big Persian rug covering most of it. The place certainly didn't look like a typical college guy's bedroom, but I guessed that was mainly because it had been furnished when Mike inherited it, and he hadn't seen the need to change anything.

"Do you have any empty drawers in any of this furniture?" I asked, trying to keep the conversation as prosaic as possible. Aside from dealing with such necessary logistics, I had no idea what the hell we would even have to say to one another.

"That one, I think," he replied, after another one of those pauses that seemed to signal he was drawing on Mike's memories for input.

Sure enough, the highboy he'd directed me to was practically empty, except for some faded and sad-looking T-shirts in the bottom drawer. And when I stuck my head in the walk-in closet, the story was almost the same -- Mike's wardrobe barely occupied a third of the racks. Well, at least we wouldn't be arguing over closet space...

But after I'd stretched out the task of unpacking for as long as I could, and after I'd rolled my suitcase into the closet and stowed it in the far corner, I emerged into the bedroom to see Smike still standing there, watching me the way one might watch a semi-amusing monkey in a cage at the zoo.

"What?" I demanded. "I didn't know that putting away clothes could be so interesting."

In answer, he moved away from the doorjamb he'd been leaning against and came to me. He reached out to touch my hair; I didn't flinch. What was the point? He'd already done the worst to me, as far as I was concerned.

"You know," he said, his tone thoughtful, "I think he's almost happy. You don't know how many times he's thought of what it would be like to have you living here with him."

_Don't let him get to you_, I told myself. _Don't let him see that his words have any effect..._

Somehow I managed to dredge up a smile and say, "Oh, really? Well, if you're having a chit-chat in there, let him know I said 'hi' and that it was a really great party and that I'm sorry he got possessed by a sorry two-bit Dark Lord who didn't have the sense to stay dead."

He didn't blink. "Insult away, if it makes you feel better." And with that he left the room -- but not, of course, to begin tidying up the place. Instead, once I ventured out of the bedroom I saw him in Mike's office, pounding away on the computer. Computers were Mike's one indulgence; every year he bought something newer and faster, with the biggest monitor he could find. Since the back of the enormous cinema display faced the door, I couldn't see what he was working on, but at least he was occupied with something besides me.

With a sigh I went on into the kitchen, found a box of trash bags under the sink, and began the weary process of making the house fit for human habitation again. At least I wouldn't have to scrub anything down; I knew that Mike had a cleaning service come in once a week on either Tuesday or Wednesday.

The cleanup took me about an hour and a half, and by the time I was done I was ravenously hungry. I realized I'd hadn't eaten anything all day (since a glass of champagne hardly counted), so I found the menu from a Thai place that Mike and I often ordered from, called them up, and had them charge everything to the credit card Mike had on file. I figured I'd earned it after everything I'd been through.

The food came, and the scent of it apparently was enough to draw Smike out of his office. I hoped spitefully that the spicy food wouldn't sit well with Sauron, but he shoveled it in the way Mike always had, then disappeared again.

Not knowing whether I should be offended or relieved. I put the leftovers in the fridge, and then wandered the house aimlessly, not sure whether I could settle myself down to something as ordinary as watching TV or reading a book. Then I spied the complete _History of Middle Earth_ sitting on one of the bookcases in the living room.

What better way to gird myself for the fight ahead than to know my enemy as well as possible? I picked up a volume at random and began scanning for references to Sauron; the thing was as dense as any history book, but maybe I could glean some sort of useful information from it.

I settled myself in an armchair, put my feet up on the ottoman, and began to read. After all, I'd defeated Sauron once. There had to be some way to do it again.


	3. Adjustments

So who's even scarier than Sauron? Read and find out! ;-) Thanks for the reviews, everyone!

* * *

Three: Adjusting

That first night I went to bed early and then lay there in the unfamiliar surroundings, terrified that Smike would come in and assault me once more. But I fell asleep before he ever came into the bedroom, and he didn't touch me. I'd thought maybe he'd tired of that particular game.

But I managed to prevail in small areas. On Monday morning I woke up around seven and started getting ready for school; my first class was at ten, which meant I had some time to prepare myself.

Smike finally roused himself when I came in from taking a shower. It appeared that when Sauron was in Mike's body he had the same need for sleep as everyone else, and he'd continued to snore slightly as I slid out of bed and went off to the bathroom.

"What are you doing?" he asked, as I finished combing through my damp hair and then strapped on a watch.

"Getting ready for school," I replied. "Which you should be doing, too. Or are you going to screw up Mike's life even further by dropping out?"

"Hardly. The -- institution -- he attends has some fascinating resources. It would be foolish for me to jeopardize my access to them."

That sounded vaguely ominous, but I also felt relieved that at least Sauron was going to maintain a pretense of preserving Mike's academic integrity.

Then he frowned and said, "Were you given permission to leave me?"

I met his scowl with one of my own and snapped, "Check the database, Sauron. In this world, women have lives. They go to school, they have jobs, they even run companies and movie studios and fly jet planes. If I dropped out now my parents would have a conniption fit -- and it would be highly suspicious. You don't want us to attract any undue attention, do you?"

He chewed on that for a few seconds, then said grudgingly, "Very well. I will permit it -- for now."

"Gee, thanks," I replied, and finished the rest of my preparations in angry silence, then flounced out.

I was lying to him about my plans for the day, though. I actually ditched my morning classes and went to Planned Parenthood in Pasadena instead.

I'd never been there before, since the scant year I'd been on the Pill I'd just gotten it prescribed by my family doctor, but I knew I needed emergency intervention. One of my friends from high school had told me that they gave out "day after" contraception at the clinic, and I wasn't about to take any chances. Somehow I'd gotten through my entire sojourn in Middle Earth without getting pregnant, but I had just attributed my lucky escape to the fact that Gorendil probably couldn't father any children, and the same for Sauron -- our physiologies might have been compatible enough for intercourse, but apparently not for breeding, thank God. But Smike and I had had unprotected sex on Saturday night, and the absolute last thing I needed to deal with at this point was a little package of Westerfield/Dark Lord genetic material floating around in my uterus.

The Planned Parenthood office was a big converted Craftsman-style house up on Lake Avenue in Pasadena. It looked friendly enough, but my heart still pounded with nervous tension as I entered the slightly shabby waiting room and approached the receptionist's window.

"Hi," I said. "I don't have an appointment, but I was hoping I might be able to see a doctor."

The receptionist, a pretty Hispanic girl probably only a few years older than I was, looked up from her computer. "What's the problem?"

"Well..." God, this was so embarrassing. I'd always liked to think of myself as someone who had tried to be responsible about this sort of thing. "I sort of need -- that is, I was hoping you might be able to get me a morning-after pill."

Her expression didn't change. "When did you have unprotected sex?"

"Saturday night."

She nodded, and handed me a clipboard. "Then it shouldn't be a problem. Usually if you follow up within seventy-two hours of intercourse the treatment is very effective."

The matter-of-fact tone in which she made that comment did a lot to help calm my nerves, so I took the clipboard and filled out the paperwork it held, trying to ignore the rough-and-tumble a few chairs down by a couple of small children being watched by an older woman who must have been their grandmother. Obviously their mother was coming a little late to the whole "planned" part of "parenthood."

But after a wait that seemed interminable but which was probably only about twenty-five minutes, I got shown into an examination room, where I donned one of those oh-so-fun paper robes and waited for the doctor.

She came in a little while after that, a woman in early middle age with graying fair hair and a pleasant if tired-looking face. We went through the standard questions; I'd agreed to a full exam because I wanted to get on the Pill again without having to see the family doctor.

Those sorts of things are never fun, but at least the doctor was efficient and calm, and she handed me a small white pill and a paper cup full of water once she was done with the exam.

"Take that," she instructed. "The usual side effect is nausea, but I've given you a progestin-only pill, and it happens less frequently with that type."

"And they really work?" I asked, after swallowing the pill.

"Normal effectiveness is around seventy-five to ninety percent. You're due for your normal period in -- " she gave a quick glance down at my chart " -- about a week?"

That had been my best guess. Things had been a little helter-skelter on that front over the past few weeks. I nodded slowly.

"Well, if your period doesn't start on schedule, give us a call so we can run some tests. You won't be able to start your pills until after your period is over, of course, so make sure you use some other form of contraception in the meantime."

Again I just nodded, but inwardly I was trying to guess what Smike's reaction would be when I told him, "No glove, no love!" The party just never stopped, apparently.

But that was it, pretty much. The doctor gave me an innocent-looking paper bag full of contraceptives -- I guessed the pharmaceutical companies donated excess stock to PP or something -- and I left, feeling somewhat relieved, but not as relieved as I would be in a week when I finally got my period and banished the specter of mommy-hood for at least a little while.

After that I pulled into the drive-through window of a Del Taco and indulged my unholy craving for a quésadilla and a Coke -- both items that had been in short supply in Middle Earth. By then it was barely noon, and I knew I could make it to my one o'clock class if I wanted to. But my brain rebelled at the thought of driving all the way downtown just for one class, although missing a session this close to the start of the semester was never a good idea.

As I sat at a red light, brooding over what to do next, my cell phone rang. I had to stare at the display for a few seconds before I recognized the number on the incoming call. My friend Lisa. Uh-oh.

Lisa never calls me on my cell in the middle of the day, because she knows I'll be in class most of the time and won't answer. I've had a few classes where people actually took calls, much to the instructor's annoyance, but my parents were sticklers for cell-phone courtesy, and I would never consider doing such a thing. As my father liked to say, "Owning a piece of hardware is no excuse for bad manners."

So she wouldn't be calling me unless she had a good reason, and I had a pretty good idea what that reason might be. Don't ask me how she found out so quickly. Lisa's always been one of those people who seem to pick up the current hot topic before it hits the general grapevine. Maybe she trolls the streets of San Marino with a police scanner or something.

I pushed the button to take the call. "Hello?" I asked, then had to hold the phone away from my ear to avoid the resulting screech.

"Oh, my GOD! Why didn't you TELL me?"

Knowing I'd need backup on this one, I took a long pull of Coke before answering. Ah, sugar and caffeine. Then I said cautiously, "Tell you about what?"

"Oh, don't give me that! You and Mike! Engaged! What the _hell_?"

"Oh, that."

An exasperated sound came out of the little speaker. "Yeah, _that_. Minor detail of suddenly being engaged to a guy that you swore up and down -- multiple times -- was only a friend. I mean, did you ever think about dating him for a while first?"

The light changed, and I accelerated slowly, steering with my knees as I pulled off a section of quesadilla and took a bite before answering. "I know it sounds weird. But we had this long talk after the party, and -- well, we just sort of found out how we really felt about each other, and it just seemed right to get engaged."

A long, dubious silence followed that statement. I could almost feel Lisa putting my comment through her patented bullshit detector. Then she said, "And you honestly expect me to believe that."

"Well, it's the truth."

"Uh-huh."

I was approaching the light just before the on-ramp to the freeway, and I knew I had to make a decision fast. With a sense of resignation, I pulled over to the right. If nothing else, going to my afternoon class would keep me out of the house for a few more hours.

"Why does it seem so crazy?" I asked, after I had made the turn and was accelerating down the ramp. "I mean, don't all the relationship books say you should be good friends with someone besides just being attracted to them physically?"

"So you're attracted to Mike? After all these years of 'Oh, no, I'm not attracted to him, we're just good friends, blah, blah, blah'?"

"Um, yeah. Something like that." Good thing this wasn't a fairy tale, or by now my nose would have stretched out far enough to break the windshield with all the lies I was telling.

Again Lisa was silent for a few seconds. "OK, if you say so. I still don't get it, but -- "

"I'm not asking you to 'get it.' Just be happy for us."

"All right." She sounded unconvinced, but obviously she'd decided to abandon the argument for the time being, since her next question was, "So who's going to be in the wedding party?"

And after that I reassured her that of course she would be my maid of honor, with the conversation flowing from there into a discussion of color, style, night wedding versus afternoon wedding, and all that other crap, until after about ten minutes she told me she had to run -- her next class was at one as well, and she still needed to head over and pick up the notes from the copy center.

I hung up with a sense of shaky relief. At least now I had Lisa in my corner -- she might not understand what had motivated me to suddenly link up with Mike, but she also wasn't going to keep questioning me about the situation. And if I knew Lisa, she would probably start driving Smike crazy with questions about the wedding. Lisa could be very persistent.

Despite everything that was going on, I finished the drive to downtown L.A. with a slight smile on my lips.

* * *

Class was uneventful enough. It took some effort to get that part of my brain functioning again -- after all, I'd spent months in Middle Earth, where I didn't have to worry about the intricacies of costume design and period-correct details. For my Studio Design class we had to take a film or television show and then design our own costumes for it, and I'd decided to redo the design of the film _Emma_; I loved the movie, but I'd always thought the costumes for it hadn't been very well-conceived. Besides, Regency fashion was a lot of fun but not as difficult in construction (well, for the women's clothing, anyway) as that of most other historical periods. For instance, I love the look of bustle gowns, but building them is a nightmare, and we had to do three full-scale mockups of the costume designs to complete the class. Redesigning a Jane Austen film seemed the best solution. 

Afterward I fought the traffic back to San Marino -- I just loved how it started to stack up at two and was a complete nightmare after three, which of course was when I got out of class -- and wondered whether Smike would be home when I got there. He'd given me a key with some reluctance, but since our schedules didn't always match up he had to admit that it didn't make sense for me not to have one.

When I pulled up to the house I saw Mike's charcoal-gray BMW (a graduation present from his father) sitting in the driveway. Oh, well. But there was also a shiny black Mercedes S-Class parked at the curb, a car so ominous in its perfection that it looked as if it had only gotten its permanent license plates a few days earlier. I stared at it for a few seconds, trying to figure out who would be driving such an expensive piece of machinery, and then my stomach seemed to plummet to the floor of my car.

Mike's dad. Holy crap.

A few words on Nathaniel Westerfield, Esquire. (All right, "esquire" isn't really part of his name, but it should be.) The guy is richer than all my other friends' parents put together, and none of them are exactly slouches in the finance department or they wouldn't be living in San Marino in the first place. He's president of some money-management outfit in downtown Los Angeles, the sort of place where it seems as if they'd laugh you out of the building if you asked them to handle any account that didn't start in the eight figures. And it isn't just that his annual salary probably could support a small African nation; he inherited bundles from his own father, whose family had been in the area for ages and made a mint on some very canny real estate purchases. Legend had it that Mike's great-grandfather had run in the same exalted circles as Henry Huntington and the Pattons (as in General George S.).

All in all, Nathaniel Westerfield is an impressive individual, to say the least. He raised Mike on his own, since Mike's mother took off when Mike was only nine (Mike never talked about it, but I can imagine that being Mrs. Nathaniel Westerfield would put a lot of pressure on a woman). Normally the mother gets custody in those sorts of cases, but "normal" doesn't apply when you're going up against Mr. Westerfield. This had been before my time; my family moved to San Marino from Pasadena when I was eleven, and I hadn't actually met Mike until the next year, when we were both in eighth grade.

Now, as far as I can tell, Mr. Westerfield has always liked me...or at least tolerated me. I'm not sure Mr. Westerfield actually _likes_ anyone. At least I was a change from Mike's usual round of geek friends. But there's a big difference between being somewhat relieved that your unabashedly nerdy if brilliant son is hanging out with a pretty girl and accepting that same girl as your future daughter-in-law.

With a swallow, I turned the engine off, after parking my car next to Mike's BMW. I gave a quick glance down at myself and wished I were wearing something besides jeans, flip-flops, and a black baby T. But that was my standard uniform for warm days; I certainly hadn't thought I would have to worry about impressing Mike's father when I got dressed that morning.

_You've faced off against Sauron and you're worried about dealing with Mike's dad?_ I thought, then shook my head. Then again, Mr. Westerfield was just as scary in his own way as the Dark Lord.

The two of them stood in the living room, facing one another, when I entered. I hadn't heard any raised voices -- at any rate, Mike's dad is the type who doesn't need to shout -- but it was fairly obvious they'd been having some sort of confrontation. Smike looked sulky, and Mr. Westerfield's regular features were ruffled somewhat by the frown that creased his forehead. But as soon as I walked in his face grew smooth and coolly polite, even though Smike continued to look put out.

"Um, hi," I said. Wow, that was brilliant.

"Hello, Sarah," returned Mr. Westerfield, still with that bland expression. "I was just discussing your big news with Michael."

Michael. To my knowledge, I have never heard Mr. Westerfield call his son anything but "Michael." No matter that to the rest of the world he was simply Mike.

I just nodded, wishing I could think of something clever and tension-reducing to say. Unfortunately, my brain wasn't cooperating.

Dismissing me, Mr. Westerfield turned back toward his son. Although the two of them were roughly the same height, somehow Smike looked much smaller when he stood next to his father. Then again, it could have just been the contrast of Mr. Westerfield's expertly tailored custom gray suit with Mike's faded jeans and untucked white shirt (his only concession to his current T.A. status; Caltech frowned on T-shirts for its teaching staff). "It would have been nice to hear about it from my son instead of Mrs. Monaghan, however," he said. "I got a very interesting phone call from her this morning, asking whether you'd discussed a venue with me yet. Imagine her surprise when I told her I didn't even know you were engaged."

Yikes. I shot a quick glance at Smike; he looked far from happy, but the Mike I had known would have also been showing a good deal of guilt, and I saw none of that. Probably Sauron didn't even know what guilt was.

While part of me might have enjoyed watching Mr. Westerfield roast Smike on a spit, I knew that I had to try and smooth over the situation. "I'm sorry about that, Mr. Westerfield," I said. "I should have told Mike to call you when we got back here yesterday afternoon -- "

"I would hope that my son would have had enough manners and good sense to think of calling me himself," Mr. Westerfield broke in. "Considering that he was not raised in a barn." He turned a cutting gaze on his son. "Perhaps social niceties seem a small matter compared to smashing atoms or whatever it is you do over there at Caltech, but with something this important I would have thought you'd have had the sense to contact me."

"Sorry," mumbled Smike. He didn't sound particularly sorry, though.

Eyes narrowed, Mr. Westerfield went on, "I happen to agree with Sarah's mother that this is all rather precipitate. However, I also know that trying to convince the two of you to change your minds or at the very least postpone things would probably be a futile enterprise. Am I correct?"

Smike and I shot confused glances at one another, and then we both nodded almost simultaneously. I think both of us were expecting Mr. Westerfield to put up more of a fight. But maybe he really did like me...or just considered me the lesser of two evils. Maybe he thought we were way too young, but at least I was also from San Marino, had known Mike for years, and apparently had proved that Mike wasn't gay after all, which no doubt was a huge relief to Mr. Westerfield.

"Sarah, your mother told me you had chosen March thirty-first as the date?"

"That's right."

He pulled an impossibly slim phone out of his inside coat pocket. "There's only one place to have the wedding -- St. Edmunds." His dark eyes focused on me for a moment, as if really seeing me for the first time. "Does your family attend church?"

What a loaded question. The simple answer was no, unless you counted weddings and funerals. My mother came from a mix of Presbyterian and Lutheran stock, but had never shown much interest in taking me to church, and my father was a lapsed Catholic who had decided the whole religion thing wasn't for him. I guess my family at this point could be referred to as "cheerfully agnostic." I didn't have a problem with a church wedding, but I also didn't have much of a preference as to which one it was.

"Er -- not lately," I replied.

"Excellent," Mr. Westerfield said, then pushed a button on his phone. "Marcia? Looks like we're on for the thirty-first. Set it up with St. Edmunds -- " He paused for a second, then put his hand over the microphone and asked, "Have you decided on a daytime or an evening wedding?"

Smike shrugged. Obviously he didn't care what actually happened at the wedding as long as it did happen.

"Evening," I said. Evening weddings tended to be much more formal; with any luck I'd get the chance to shoehorn Smike into trying on innumberable white-tie ensembles.

Mr. Westerfield returned to the phone. "St. Edmunds, six p.m. Then call Jill over at the Ritz-Carlton to take care of the reception reservations." Without even saying good-bye, he snapped the phone shut.

Talk about taking over a situation. Not that I could argue with his view of the Ritz-Carlton as the premier reception location, but it was just the way he did it -- not so much as a by-your-leave. And how the hell could my parents possibly afford to pay for that kind of upper-crusty site?

I felt compelled to protest, since obviously Smike wasn't going to say anything. "Um, Mr. Westerfield, I really appreciate your help, but the Ritz -- "

"If the cost concerns you, Sarah, don't worry," Mike's father said immediately. "I intend to handle all that myself. The Westerfields have a certain standing in the community that needs to be upheld."

The implication being, of course, that my parents couldn't possibly manage to foot the bill for a wedding that wouldn't compromise the precious Westerfield "standing," whatever that was. I wanted to argue, but I knew he was right. Oh, a medium-sized wedding and reception at a nice site -- no problem. But an evening reception at the Ritz-Carlton for God knows how many guests? Even I knew that could push the budget well past a quarter-million dollars...which was probably pocket change for Nathaniel Westerfield.

Apparently satisfied by my lack of response, Mr. Westerfield turned once more to Smike. "I suppose you haven't even bought her an engagement ring."

Although I thought I saw a certain gleam come and go in Smike's dark eyes at the word "ring," it became obvious to me that once he had processed what an engagement ring actually was he lost interest. "Um, no," he replied.

"Well, get her one. Immediately," he added, in case he had left any room for doubt. "Go to Asanti's on Mission Street, and tell them to put it on my account."

I think if it hadn't been for Sauron's presence in his body, Mike would have been squirming all over the place at this point. As it was, he just said calmly, "Sure. I'm free tomorrow afternoon."

On Tuesdays I had class from nine to noon, so the second half of my day was pretty open, too. "Sounds like fun," I said, and to my surprise I thought it actually did. I mean, I don't know too many girls who wouldn't be at least slightly excited by the prospect of picking out an engagement ring funded by a future father-in-law's apparently bottomless checkbook.

"Excellent." Mr. Westerfield glanced at his watch, some gleaming piece of Swiss workmanship that had probably cost more than my car. "We'll need to hold an engagement party, but I'll have Marcia handle that as well. I'll get back to you with the details. But I'm going to be late for a meeting if I don't head out now."

And with that he deposited his cell phone back in his breast pocket and took himself off, leaving me to stare at the front door as it closed behind him. I had the same slightly dizzy feeling I got whenever I stepped off a roller-coaster. Interesting encounter -- no "welcome to the family" or "I'm so happy to have you as my future daughter." No, Smike's and my engagement had been handled as efficiently and ruthlessly as a corporate merger.

The two of us stared at each other for a moment, and despite everything, I had a sudden urge to burst out laughing. Instead I asked, "Who's Marcia?"

"His secretary," Smike replied.

"Poor woman," I commented, and couldn't help smiling a little.

To my surprise, Smike grinned back at me. "He is somewhat...formidable."

He looked so much like the old Mike for a second that my heart ached. God, I wished it really were my old friend going through all this with me, instead of a being who had only taken on Mike's physical body the way a person might pull on a jacket. But I couldn't let these little flashes that reminded me of the friend I'd lost deceive me. I had to remain on my guard at all times.

So I nodded, then calmly informed him that the last thing either one of us needed at this point was for me to get pregnant, so it was condoms or nothing until I was able to get started on the Pill. To my surprise, he didn't argue; maybe even Sauron was a little freaked out by the thought of having to deal with a human infant. He left soon after that -- when I asked why, he replied, "I have to go to the drugstore for those prophylactics you requested."

Oh, well. So much for my hope that abstinence wouldn't be that big a hardship for him. Or maybe it really wouldn't, but of course it was more fun to torture me with the prospect of future sex.

After he left I wandered into his office, hoping that maybe I could see some of what had fascinated him so much the night before, but of course the damn computer was password-locked. Another brilliant idea shot to hell.

I knew I should have gone back to the _History of Middle Earth_ and continued my search for Sauron's weak spots (if he had any, which I was beginning to doubt). Failing that, I should have probably started calling around to my friends and spreading the "happy news." But I knew Lisa had probably already beaten me to the punch on that one. Instead, I threw myself down on the couch and turned on the TV, then quickly flipped through the channels. The images began to blur one into the other, a wash of bright color and incomprehensible sound, until finally the room disappeared into a haze. I buried my face in my hands and, taking advantage of this rare moment of solitude, let the tears come.


	4. Slipping

You asked for Gorendil, you got him! (Well, sort of.) ;-) Thanks for all the reviews, everyone -- I'm really glad you're enjoying this!

* * *

Four: Slipping

It's amazing how quickly an unnatural situation can come to seem natural. Of course I couldn't quite resign myself to my new living arrangements, but I found that if I kept it set in my mind that this was simply temporary, that things would change as soon as I came up with a way to dislodge Sauron from Mike's body, I could somehow find the strength to get through another day.

Too bad I'd been having absolutely no luck in figuring out just how to go about banishing Sauron from this plane of existence. Oh, I'd pored over the various volumes of the _History of Middle Earth_ until it felt as if my eyeballs were about to start bleeding, but the little information I'd gleaned from the sections discussing him didn't seem to be terribly relevant. So he'd been Morgoth's servant first, and only branched out on his own after that first, even more terrible Dark Lord had been defeated. That Sauron had been fair to look upon in the beginning I already knew -- I'd seen that inhumanly beautiful guise for myself when I'd been in Middle Earth. And yes, he forged the Rings of Power (except for the three made by the Elves), but I couldn't find much beyond that save that he poured a great deal of his own power into the forging of the One Ring, which was why it possessed the ability to dominate the others. But exactly how Sauron had gone about making the Rings, or whether he had any vulnerabilities beyond destroying the One (which I'd already accomplished, for all the good it had done), I couldn't seem to discover at all.

So the days and then weeks slipped by, filled with enough distractions that some days I could almost forget I hadn't chosen this life for myself. Smike allowed me to take over the unused apartment above the two-car garage for my office/design studio, and I carted over my dress forms and sewing machines and turned the place into the usual fabric-store-caught-in-a-cyclone disaster that invariably occurs whenever I'm in the middle of a big sewing project. The rest of my friends at first had reactions similar to Lisa's, but everyone seemed to get used to the idea of my engagement after a bit. No doubt the four-carat platinum-set VVS rock that soon gleamed from the ring finger of my left hand convinced even the most skeptical that Mike and I were serious. A huge engagement party was planned for mid-October and coordinated by the indefatigable Marcia, who must have been a European field marshal in a previous life. And through it all I had the feeling of being swept along by forces I couldn't control, the sensation of plummeting down a mountain road in a car with no brakes. Maybe I should have had the guts to jump out and take my chances.

But I didn't.

* * *

The night before my engagement party I dreamed of Gorendil. 

Oh, I'd had dreams about him before -- usually nightmares where I saw Sauron stab him once again, or ones where I thought I saw my former lover in a crowd and ran after him but somehow could never quite catch up. The worst, though, were the dreams where I thought Gorendil was making love to me, and I opened my eyes, only to realize it was Sauron who held me, who touched me.

Probably those were the worst because too often they weren't dreams at all, but my reality. Sauron never forced me; he didn't have to. He knew I was a thrall to the hideous threat he made the first day he arrived in San Marino. I tried to tell myself that it didn't matter, that it was only my body he used, and that my mind and soul were still free.

Some days I almost believed it.

But this dream was different. I walked through a gray fog, the sort of thick, heavy stuff that usually blankets the coasts but every once in a while makes it all the way to the inland valley where I live. The air even smelled damp, although I had no sensation of cold. And then I emerged into a sort of clearing in the mist, where a large flat rock sat, a granite slab almost the same color as the fog. The rock seemed familiar -- maybe something from a book I had once read -- but I couldn't recall exactly what, and I supposed it really didn't matter all that much. Sitting on the rock was Gorendil.

He looked subtly different. The shoulder-length dark hair had been cut short, and the gray streaks at his temples seemed more obvious than they had when his hair had brushed his shoulders. The scar across his right cheek had disappeared. Instead of the usual black robes, he wore contemporary clothing -- black as always, but this time just a plain button-up shirt and dress slacks. But he was still my Gorendil nonetheless.

I stopped a few feet away from the rock where he sat, as he lifted his head and stared at me. His eyes were an echo of the fog that swirled around us.

"I was wondering when you were going to get here," he said.

"Have you been waiting long?" I asked.

An enigmatic smile touched his mouth. "A lifetime."

Not sure how to answer that, I said, "If I'd known you were waiting, I would have hurried."

"Fair enough." Gorendil patted the empty space on the rock next to him, and I sat, feeling somehow overwhelmed by his closeness. So often I'd tortured myself with memories of him, the way his arms had felt around me, how the lines at the corners of his eyes deepened when he smiled, the sound of his voice. All I wanted to do then was lean against him and never wake up, to stay in the dream forever.

"I didn't think I would ever see you again," I whispered. My throat suddenly felt tight and thick with all the tears I'd wanted to shed and couldn't. "I know this isn't real, but -- "

"What is real?" he asked. "You more than most people should know how thin the fabric of reality can be."

Well, that was true. I'd had firsthand experience with discovering how strange a place the universe actually was. "So if I wish hard enough, can I make this dream the reality and my life the dream?" I inquired, unable to keep the bitterness out of my voice.

In answer he reached out to touch my cheek. It certainly felt like Gorendil's hand: cool, strong, the fingertips callused from uncounted years of carrying a sword. "You have had to find a strength that perhaps you never knew you possessed," he said. "But far more than your own unhappiness is at stake here."

"Don't you think I know that?" I retorted. I thought of the way Sauron had threatened my father, and of the life the Dark Lord had stolen from Mike Westerfield.

"It goes beyond what you know." Gorendil's face was somber, his mouth set in a hard line. "There is a balance in all things, Sarah, a balance that Sauron has upset by coming to your world. Equilibrium is not easily regained once it is lost."

Feeling completely out of my depth, I demanded, "What are you trying to tell me? How could I have done anything differently?"

Again that unreadable smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. "Do I dare disturb the universe?"

Something about what he said sounded vaguely familiar, but things in dreams often do. At any rate, I didn't have time to puzzle out where I had heard those words before. "Do you have any idea what I've been going through for the past few weeks? To have him in my life at every turn, and to have to pretend to everyone that I'm happy and everything's fine? To let him touch me and -- " At that point I broke off.

His arms went around me then, and he pulled me to his chest and held me, the way I thought he'd never hold me again. Oddly, though, I could feel his heart beating beneath my cheek, and I sensed the rise and fall of his chest. When we were in Middle Earth I'd never seen any such signs of life in him, undead wraith that he'd been, but when had dreams ever been logical?

"Don't you think I bleed every time he touches you?" Gorendil asked, his voice a harsh whisper. "Don't you know how I die a little more every time you sit in your car and weep, because it's the only place where you can be alone?" He pulled away from me then and cupped my face in his hands, forcing me to look up at him. The gray eyes that caught and held my own were filled with immeasurable pain. "But I stand it, because you do. Your hatred and sense for revenge fuel you, but you must look beyond that if you are to succeed in banishing him forever."

"What's stronger than hate?" I asked, but I thought I already knew the answer.

Gorendil smiled then. "Love, of course. The love you and I shared. The love you have for your parents and your desire to keep them from harm. Love for this innocent boy whose body Sauron has stolen. Oh, I know you did not love him the way you loved me," he added quickly, as I opened my mouth to utter some protest, "but you still loved him, and you have refrained from attacking Sauron outright because you don't want any harm to come to your friend. And beyond that there is your love for this world of yours, flawed though it might be. The shadows it has known will be as nothing compared to what will happen should Sauron ever achieve that which he seeks even now."

"What is he seeking?" I asked. Come to think of it, Smike had been acting even more furtive than usual lately. I'd never been able to hack the password on his computer, but he'd spent inordinate amounts of time working away at something, and the texts that had begun to pile up in his office were truly frightening. I think he left them out because he knew I couldn't make head or tail of them -- I'd opened one, caught a glimpse of a sea of fiendishly complex equations, and shut the book so quickly you'd have thought there was a scorpion crouched on the page. "Not another ring?"

"Nothing so simple," Gorendil replied, and the note of worry in his voice sounded stronger than ever. "I believe Sauron has realized the time for rings is past. He is able to avail himself of much more fearsome technology now."

I wondered what could be more frightening than that, then thought about nuclear bombs and biological weapons and chemical-warfare devices, all of which of course seemed vastly more destructive to me than the Rings of Power. "But what am I supposed to do?" I cried out. "Even if it were just Mike I'm up against, the guy has an IQ of 170 or something. There's no way I can outsmart him. And then when you have Sauron in there using all of Mike's knowledge -- "

"I cannot give you that answer now," Gorendil said. "I only know that you must have two things: courage, and faith. Without them you are doomed to fail."

"Courage I can manage." I made no effort to keep the acid out of my tone. "If I didn't have courage I couldn't make myself go home to that -- that thing every night. But I'm afraid I'm pretty short on faith right now."

Instead of getting angry, he just gave me a sad, knowing look. "Then let me only say that I have faith in you, Sarah. You defeated him once. You destroyed the Ring. Because of you Middle Earth is free. Let that be your rock, and perhaps you will come to faith in your own way." Again he reached out to touch my cheek, and I closed my eyes at the brush of his fingers against my skin. "Be vigilant, and watch for signs. Help may come when you least expect it." Then he leaned forward and kissed me, his lips firm against mine. Somehow I could feel the longing that seemed to radiate out from him, flowing over me, reassuring me of his love. He pulled away from me, then said, "Courage, dearest one."

And once the words had been uttered, it seemed as a gulf opened up between us. The mist flooded in around me, and I was blind, falling sightlessly through the darkness, until I sat up, gasping, in the bed I shared with Smike.

Thank God he didn't wake up. I'd noticed that he tended to sleep heavily, but I had no idea whether that was because Mike had always been a naturally heavy sleeper, or whether the strain of having two intelligences barely contained within it had taken a toll on Mike's mortal body.

The dream had seemed so real, I could still sense the imprint of Gorendil's lips on mine. I lifted my hand to my mouth, but of course I felt nothing but the residue of the lip balm I had applied before coming to bed. If the dream had somehow been no dream at all, wouldn't Gorendil's kiss have worn away the balm?

I knew I could drive myself mad with speculation. Of course it had been just a dream...although a very vivid and detailed one. So Gorendil wanted me to have faith, did he? Well, I would do my best. I had to believe that somehow I could prevail over Sauron, or I might as well swallow a bottle of sleeping pills and have done with it.

With that cheery thought to sustain me, I rolled over on my side and stared moodily out into the darkness. The last thing that swam up into my mind before I sank into sleep once more was a sudden realization as to why that one question Gorendil asked had sounded so familiar. My AP English days might have been far behind me, but I'd retained at least bits and pieces of the works we'd studied. Besides, my mother had always been a nut for T.S. Eliot.

Now, why would I would dream of Gorendil quoting from "The Love Song of Alfred J. Prufrock"?

* * *

The afternoon of the engagement party I spent at a local salon, getting buffed and polished to perfection. At that point I couldn't have cared less what I looked like, but appearances had to be kept up, and the future Mrs. Westerfield couldn't possibly be seen at her own engagement party looking anything less than sublime. The girls at the salon chattered away about how excited I must be, oohed and aahed over my engagement ring -- which, I have to admit, is pretty spectacular -- and gushed over the general fabulousness of the whole event. A few months earlier I probably would have joined in whole-heartedly, but after my experiences in Middle Earth I thought I'd gained a bit of perspective, if nothing else. 

Still, their efforts must have paid off, because after I emerged into the living room, trailing clouds of glory, Smike looked up from his laptop and stared at me for a moment. Then he said, in a half-surprised tone very different from the usual mocking accents he employed whenever we were alone together, "You really are beautiful."

For a second I was so shocked all I could do was stop dead in the center of the room, one hand frozen on the strap of my beaded Sue Wong gown, which had threatened to slip down off my shoulder. Was it possible? Had Sauron just paid me a _compliment_?

"Um...thanks," I replied after I regained the power of speech. "You're not looking half-bad yourself."

Which he wasn't. Apparently Mr. Westerfield had bullied Smike into getting a decent haircut at last, and between that and the expertly tailored dark-gray suit that now adorned his lanky form, my fiancé was barely recognizable as the rumpled grad student I had seen just that morning.

A burst of machine-gun typing, and then Smike closed the laptop and set it on the coffee table. "You're surprised."

"A little," I admitted. "You just never struck me as the compliment type."

"Perhaps some of Mike is rubbing off on me." He stood, then withdrew a set of car keys from his pants pocket.

"Well, that would explain it," I remarked. "Since Mike's manners were much better than yours."

Instead of provoking him, the comment merely elicited a quick grin. "Perhaps. But we should be going. I don't dare invoke the wrath of the fearsome Mr. Westerfield by being late."

"Just remember to call him 'Dad' when you see him," I said. "Even he might think 'Mr. Westerfield' is a little formal."

"Of course." He offered me his arm. "Shall we?"

I hesitated for the briefest moment, then took it. For whatever reason, Smike seemed to be in a rare good humor, and I didn't want to provoke him. I could only hope that he'd stay equally cheerful for the entire evening. It would make things so much less awkward.

Even so, I wondered what it was that had encouraged his current upbeat mood and worried that it could be nothing good...

Gorendil's voice echoed in my mind: _Courage, dearest one._

I lifted my chin, took a breath, and let Smike lead me out to the car.

* * *

We pulled up into the long, curving driveway of Mr. Westerfield's palatial estate and waited as a valet hurried over to assist us. I know "palatial estate" is a hackneyed phrase at best, but that's exactly what the place was. Built about the same time, and of a size to rival the gorgeous mansion that currently contains the art galleries of the Huntington Museum, the Westerfield home sat on about five acres and was a sprawling Italianate villa that looked as if it should have been used as the set for the compound of a South American drug kingpin or something. Not that Nathaniel Westerfield would ever do anything so plebeian as rent out his property for a movie shoot -- he certainly didn't need the money. 

When I first met Mike, it took almost two years before he invited me over to his house. At the time I'd just assumed that he was embarrassed by the place and didn't want me to see it. Although there certainly aren't any slums in San Marino, there are areas with more modest housing and apartment buildings, and I'd thought Mike must have been living in one of those and was comparing his home to the pretty four-bedroom Cape Cod my parents had recently purchased.

Nothing could have been further from the truth, of course. Or, to be precise, Mike _was_ embarrassed -- by the size of his family home and the wealth it represented. He went in mortal fear of being liked simply because he was rich and had always done pretty much everything he could to present as down-to-earth an image to the rest of the world as possible. When his father had given him the shiny 7-Series as a present for earning his B.A. in three years, Mike had tried to think of ways to turn it down. Before that he'd driven an Acura Integra that had served him just fine, and he thought it wasteful to replace that car when it was barely four years old and still mechanically sound. But Mike also knew better than anyone else how difficult it is to say no to Nathaniel Westerfield, so he'd accepted the car with as much grace as he could muster.

On the other hand, it felt good to be helped out of such a gorgeous piece of German machinery when attending a bash like this. We were only about fifteen minutes late, but I could see that quite a few people had gotten there before us, judging by the number of cars stacked in front of the huge five-car garage at the far end of the curving driveway, not to mention the vehicles parked on the street itself.

I waited by the front door as Smike handed off the BMW to the valet. Then he came and took my arm again, leading me inside.

Even though I'd been to the house a score of times throughout high school and college, up until the point where Mike inherited his current residence from his grandfather, the place still amazed me. It was the sort of home where you kept thinking to yourself, _This can't be real. I have to be on a movie set or something_. And now, of course, the tastefully arranged antiques and eclectic but somehow harmonious collection of fine art were just enhanced by the exquisite floral arrangements that had been brought in for the party. Waiters in white evening jackets moved throughout the crowd, carrying trays of champagne and hors d'oeuvres.

Smike snagged two glasses of champagne from a passing waiter and handed one to me. I accepted it gratefully, but at the same time I couldn't help wondering why he was being so nice. I knew how to react to him when he was being smug and snarky; this new well-behaved Smike troubled me and threw me a little off-balance.

I didn't have time to do much more than murmur, "Thank you," and take a sip of champagne before Mr. Westerfield materialized out of the enormous living room and appeared at Smike's elbow. He gave a significant look at his watch, and I felt compelled to say, "Sorry, Mr. Westerfield. It's my fault -- they kept me at the salon for hours."

He had the grace to smile and reply, "Well, you are definitely worth the wait, Sarah. But there are some people I'd like you to meet -- "

And he somehow managed to herd Smike and me out of the foyer, through the living room, and on to an enormous terrace where white fairy lights formed a canopy overhead and a band off to one side played soft jazz. Although it was mid-October, the night remained fairly warm; we'd had a run of Santa Ana winds, and the weather had been hot, although luckily the dry, dusty breezes had died down after a week of playing havoc with my sinuses and my hair.

Because the air felt so pleasant, the terrace outside was almost as crowded as the house itself. We moved through the throngs of people, and although I saw quite a few individuals I recognized, I knew better than to stop and say hello until after Mr. Westerfield had accomplished his mission.

His goal apparently was a tall dark-haired woman who, judging by her resemblance to Mike's father, must be an aunt or other close relation. My suspicion was confirmed when Mr. Westerfield said, "Sarah, this is Michael's Aunt Jocelyn, my sister."

I extended my hand. "It's so nice to meet you," I said politely, even as I racked my brains trying to remember what, if anything, Mike had told me about his aunt. He tended not to talk about his family much.

Jocelyn reached out and brushed my fingers with an expertly manicured hand. I guessed she probably was Mr. Westerfield's younger sister, although it was hard for me to tell for sure; her fine pale skin had obviously been Botoxed into submission. "Michael's told us so much about you," she said, although I detected a distinct lack of enthusiasm or warmth in her tone. Her dark eyes flickered as she looked me up and down; I got the impression that she would have opened my mouth and inspected my teeth if she'd dared.

"Nothing good, I hope," I said, attempting a smile.

The joke fell flatter than a crepe. Jocelyn raised an eyebrow, and Mr. Westerfield frowned slightly.

To my surprise, Smike jumped in to my rescue. "Oh, you know I rave about you all the time, Sarah. They're probably sick of listening to me by now."

"He is very -- enthusiastic," admitted Mr. Westerfield. "To be sure, we all are."

That was going a bit too far, but I certainly knew better than to contradict him. Instead, I managed a smile that felt almost natural and said, "Well, the feeling is mutual."

In response, Smike leaned down and kissed me on the cheek, while Mr. Westerfield gave his sister a glance that all but said, _I know my son is making a mistake, but I can afford to indulge him_. No doubt the two had already hashed over my shortcomings -- family of no great importance, not even a real college degree (for I knew that Mr. Westerfield considered my fashion studies frivolous at best), passably pretty but nothing to write home about.

To be sure, I did feel a little out of my element here -- Mike's aunt was dressed head to toe in Chanel, and there had to be probably a hundred thousand dollars' worth of Tahitian pearls draped around her neck. I didn't even want to guess the market value of Mr. Westerfield's house, not to mention how much money must be stacked up in his various accounts. He certainly hadn't blinked at the six-figure price tag for my engagement ring.

But I also knew I couldn't let them see that they'd intimidated me. Let Mike's aunt go home and pick me apart with the other Ladies Who Lunch -- I hoped when I got to be that age I'd have to courage to accept it and not fight it with injections that made me look like an extra from _House of Wax_. At least I knew that Mike (the real Mike) had loved me for me.

And it was Smike who saved me again, because after that he made his excuses and got me away from his father and aunt, saying that it wouldn't be fair to the rest of the guests if we didn't do some more mingling.

Once we were safely out of hearing range I paused and shot him a suspicious look. "All right, where is Sauron, and what have you done with him?"

Big brown eyes looked at me guilelessly over the rim of a champagne flute. "What do you mean?"

I took a sip of my own champagne before replying. "You're being way too nice to me."

He put a hand to his heart in mocking, wounded gesture. "I'm shocked -- shocked! -- that you'd say such a thing to me when you know how much I wu-u-u-v you."

I couldn't help it. He sounded so silly that I burst out laughing, and, to my surprise, he began to laugh as well. Again I felt that flash of the real Mike peeking out from inside -- maybe he couldn't control things or force Sauron out of his mind, but maybe Mike's personality wasn't as completely submerged as I had feared. All around us people looked over and smiled to see the two of us apparently enjoying ourselves so much. If only they'd known the truth.

The rest of the evening went by in a blur. I had my own fairly large extended family in attendance, all of whom had been dying to meet Mike, and I lost track of how many business associates and other acquaintances of Mr. Westerfield's I shook hands with. The champagne flowed freely. I have to confess that I got fairly plowed, although so many other people were also fuzzy around the edges that I'm not sure anyone really noticed. At least I managed to get through the night without knocking over anything or spilling anything on myself.

At some point around two o'clock in the morning Smike rolled me out of the house into the BMW, where I collapsed in a giggling heap in the front seat. Good thing I'm a happy drunk.

Smike himself had stopped drinking a few hours earlier; I couldn't recall whether that was because he was trying to be cautious or his father had quietly put the kibosh on any champagne refills since he knew Mike had to drive me home. After making sure my seatbelt was fastened -- I couldn't seem to manage it on my own -- he started up the car and pulled out of the driveway.

"You're very Mike-ly," I said, then laughed.

He shot me a sideways glance. "What?"

"More Mike, less Sauron," I replied, and hiccupped. "Oops."

"Do you usually drink this much?" he asked, looking a little alarmed.

"Worried that you're marrying a lush?" I eased my feet out of their Manolo Blahniks and wiggled my toes ecstatically. "Don't worry, Shmikey -- it's just the champagne. Keep that stuff out of the house, and I promise I'll be a model of sho -- sho -- sobriety." It took an effort to get out the three-syllable word, but I thought I managed it all right.

His only response was a shake of the head. He kept his eyes on the road, and drove carefully, I noticed. Probably just trying to avoid attention. Cops usually had the attitude that if you were out on the roads at that hour you had to have been drinking. San Marino police tended to be bored, as they often were in upscale communities, and therefore would pull you over for the slightest infraction.

The silence in the car seemed a little off-putting after the hubbub of the party, so I leaned over and switched on the radio. ZZ Top blared out of the speakers; apparently Smike had his car stereo tuned to the same eclectic station I often listened to (or he'd never changed Mike's presets), where The Cure could butt up against Tom Petty, Abba with Oingo Boingo, and no one blinked an eye.

I rolled down the window and let the cool night air stream in. It made me think of the times the dog my family had when I was younger would stick his head out of the open car window, and I did the same, giggling and bellowing, "Give me all your lovin', all your hugs and kisses t-o-o-o -- "

"Sarah!" Smike grabbed me by the arm and hauled me inside, then jabbed a button to close the window and engage the childproof mechanism. "Are you nuts?"

"Nope, just drunk," I replied, then collapsed like a wet noodle in my seat. "Are we there yet?"

He didn't answer; he didn't need to, since at that point we had turned down our street and glided into the driveway. After pulling into the garage, Smike commanded, "Don't move -- I'll help you out."

"'Kay," I said.

Then I waited as he disengaged his own seatbelt and came around to my side of the car. Again he worked the seatbelt, slid an arm behind me, and maneuvered me out of the BMW, then continued to guide me up the front walk into the house. Luckily we'd left a light on in the living room, or no doubt I would have walked right into the sofa.

"Are you sure you're all right?" he asked.

I waved an airy hand. "Oh, sure...I just need to take some of Lisa's patented hangover cure."

"What's that?"

"Glass of water, B-complex, and a couple of Tylenol. Take it before you go to bed, and poof!" I giggled. "No hangover."

"Fascinating," Smike commented, sounding so much like Mr. Spock from _Star Trek_ that I began laughing even harder. That elicited a shake of the head, and he disappeared in the direction of the kitchen, no doubt to fetch my miracle cure.

Sure enough, he returned carrying a glass of water and several pills. He handed them to me, and I swallowed the two Tylenol capsules, and then the big B-complex horse pill.

"You know what the problem is with B-complex vitamins?" I asked.

He shook his head.

I leaned forward and said, in a conspiratorial whisper, "They make you pee bright yellow."

"I couldn't have lived without knowing that."

I giggled again, and Smike apparently took that as a sign that any further coherent conversation was doubtful.

"Come on," he said, and half-led, half-carried me into the bedroom. Once we were there he helped me to sit down on the bed, and then he proceeded to carefully remove his suit and drape it over the chair that occupied the far corner of the room.

I had the vague idea that I should remove my dress, but since I happened to be sitting on it my efforts to pull it off were fruitless at best. After a moment Smike came over and, without comment, eased the gown up past my hips and then over my head. It was the sort of spaghetti-strapped slipdress that you couldn't wear anything much beyond a thong underneath, and once it was off he looked down at me again, eyes narrowed.

Neither of us said anything. Then he lifted me up and buried my mouth under his. I felt his hands moving up and down my naked body, but for the first time I almost welcomed his touch. Of course in my state I wasn't thinking clearly -- part of me responded because I somehow got it in my head that it was Mike touching me, not Sauron. And was that so bad? Maybe if things had been allowed to run their normal course I would have fallen for Mike anyway. I know that's what he wanted.

All I did know was that, as the night seemed to swirl around me and we fell down onto the bed together, for once I responded to him and felt pleasure for the first time since Gorendil had last made love to me.

But I was glad I retained enough of my sanity to cry out Mike's name at the end, and not Sauron's...


	5. Plotting

As always, thanks for the reviews, everyone! And welcome back from your holiday, Gimli's Trouser Beard!

Five: Plotting

The next morning I awoke with a gummy mouth and a slight headache -- not too bad, considering the amount of champagne I had drunk at the party. I gave Lisa's hangover preventative a score of about ninety percent.

Smike's side of the big king-size bed was empty. I sat up and shot a bleary look at the clock -- eleven-thirty already. Usually I was up before Smike, since I had farther to drive to get to classes, but he'd obviously beaten me to the punch today. Just as well, since sanity had returned with sobriety, and I had no idea how to face him after what had happened the previous night. What the hell had I been thinking? How could I have forgotten he was the enemy, no matter how nice he had acted...with _act_ being the key word there. Of course it had all been an act. Sauron had no reason to be so friendly and solicitous; ergo, he must have been doing it just to mess with my head. And apparently he'd done a pretty good job of it.

Scowling, I pushed myself out of bed and staggered into the bathroom. Mike's house has one of those nifty tankless water heaters, so I was able to take an endless hot shower -- well, at least forty minutes' worth -- letting the soothing heat of the water beat against my head, easing the aching muscles in my neck and helping me to relax somewhat. Afterward I felt reasonably human and pulled on a pair of jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt, since the warm conditions of the day before had been replaced by a bank of low-hanging gray clouds.

When I wandered out into the living room I saw a note on the coffee table and picked it up. _Working in the lab_, it said. _Call me on my cell if you need me. M_. Typical that he would sign the note with Mike's initial. Guess Sauron couldn't be too careful...God forbid his note might fall into enemy hands. The freaky thing was that it even looked like Mike's writing -- his cursive was terrible, so he always used the sort of precise block printing employed by engineers and architects.

What the hell could he be working on in the lab that was so important he'd go over there on a Sunday? Considering who I was dealing with, it couldn't be anything good.

As far as I could tell, Smike had been managing pretty well over at Caltech. No one had seemed to notice anything odd about him, and I guessed he'd managed to tap into enough of Mike's knowledge and memories that he hadn't made any slip-ups so far. I hadn't asked him a lot of questions, but I know that if he'd made any obvious blunders it would have gotten back to me one way or another. We hadn't done much discussing each other's school work -- I know that if I launched into a discussion of the merits of corseted petticoats versus actual Regency corsets his eyes would have glazed over immediately, and he must have assumed the same about me in regard to particles, waves, and Heisenberg's uncertainty principle.

But the thought of Sauron's cunning matched up with Mike's brilliant scientific brain made me feel a little queasy. After all, the mad geniuses over at Caltech could be cooking up all sorts of fun experiments ranging from anti-gravity to neutron bombs. You just didn't know. And since Mike had been studying quantum mechanics, the science that looks at the most primal elements of the universe -- well, I don't have that sort of mind, so I couldn't guess at what he was up to, but I had a feeling it wasn't anything geared toward the betterment of mankind.

Much as I hated to do it, since I've always despised the "interfering girlfriend" types, I decided to give Drew Cummings a call. To say Drew hadn't been exactly thrilled over the news of Mike's and my engagement would be a massive understatement, but since the two had been friends since grade school (and Drew had been the only one of Mike's high school friends to also attend Caltech), he'd eventually gotten over it. Or at least I hoped he had. I could understand him being upset, but seriously, the only way he and I would ever have gotten together was if the rest of the human inhabitants of Earth had been wiped out and we had to repopulate the planet. And even then I probably would have had to get seriously drunk first.

Drew's number was programmed into the cordless phone in the kitchen, so I didn't have to look it up. He still lived at home, so I prepared myself for having one of his parents answer, but luckily he was the one who picked up.

"Hello?"

"Hey, Drew, it's Sarah." Now that I had him on the phone, I was having second thoughts about the wisdom of the call, but it was too late now.

"Sarah?" He sounded surprised. "What, no hangover?"

I winced. "Was I that obvious?"

"Um...yeah."

Taking a breath, I replied, "Well, I'm actually doing OK. I just wanted to ask you something."

"What?"

Now came the tricky part. I didn't want to sound overly inquisitive, or Drew would wonder what exactly I was up to. On the other hand, if I were too vague then I wouldn't get any decent information. Before I could lose my nerve, I said, "Well, it's about Mike. I know he doesn't really want to bore me with all the details of what he's working on over at school, but I thought it would be kind of nice if I knew a little bit about it so we could talk about it more. Do you have any idea what his current project is?"

Drew said nothing for a few seconds, and I began to worry that I had already blown it. Geek extraordinaire he might be, but Drew was definitely not stupid. Then the knot in my stomach eased a bit as he said, "Well, I don't know that much. I'm studying mathematics, and he's in physics -- besides already being in the graduate program. Lately he hasn't said much to me, either. I don't know if he's worried that I'm going to steal his secrets or something." He laughed as he made the comment, so I knew Drew wasn't serious -- at least not completely. "But I know he's been doing a lot of study of the many-worlds interpretation as it relates to quantum mechanics."

What the...? "Uh, English, please," I said.

Drew laughed again. "Well, I'm not the best person to be explaining this, but put simply it just means using quantum mechanics to propose infinite parallel universes that function under basically the same physical laws as this one but which can have certain variables that differ based on whether observables are particles or waves -- "

My head felt like it was going to explode. "That was English?"

"Hey, you were the one who wanted to discuss his work with him."

Too bad Mike wasn't getting his Ph.D. in marine biology or history or something I could actually get a handle on. I'd done OK in science in high school, but that was like comparing a kid who could play "Chopsticks" on the piano to Leonard Bernstein playing Chopin's "Fantasie Impromptu" at Carnegie Hall. I gave a shaky laugh and said, "Well, maybe this wasn't such a good idea after all."

"Hey, it's OK -- I don't pretend to understand all of it, either, and I'm actually studying at Caltech. In a highly inaccurate nutshell, basically what he's researching is the concept of parallel universes and whether any sort of communication or travel is possible between them."

At that moment I was glad my stomach was empty. Otherwise, I might have felt the urge to throw up. "Parallel universes?" I squeaked.

"It's highly theoretical, of course. But Mike was always convinced there was some way to prove that they exist. And then he wanted to go from proving they exist to developing some means to contact them."

Of course he knew they existed. Good ol' Sauron, lodged in Mike's hyper-intelligent brain, already had the proof that parallel universes exist. So he could skip over all the theoretical stuff and get down to the nitty-gritty of figuring out a way to contact them...to travel to them...to conquer them.

Visions of multiverses being swallowed up by Sauron's raging desire to dominate everything in sight rose up in my brain, and I shut my eyes, willing myself to be calm. Obviously he hadn't gotten that far yet, or the Dark Lord certainly wouldn't be hanging out in San Marino playing footsie with me and letting me prattle on about the differences between "moonlight mauve" and "ashes of roses" for my bridesmaid dresses.

"Sarah?" Drew sounded a little worried. "Are you OK?"

"Oh, yeah, fine," I said automatically. "It's just -- wow -- that's some pretty serious stuff, isn't it?"

"Yep, Mike always went for the out-there things. But if anyone can figure it out, it's Mike. The guy even makes me feel like a moron sometimes."

The old Princess Leia comeback -- _That doesn't sound too hard_ -- flitted into my mind, but I bit my tongue. Damn, I really had watched those movies with Mike one too many times. "OK, well, I guess we're stuck with discussing books or movies, then," I replied, hoping my hesitation hadn't been too noticeable.

"Probably safer," he agreed. "Hey, I've gotta go. The parental units are dragging me off to brunch. Tell Mike I said hi."

"Oh, sure," I said, knowing that of course I would never tell Smike I'd been trying to check up on him. "Have fun."

"Yeah, right," Drew responded. Then he hung up.

I carefully replaced the handset in its charging unit, my mind racing. Although I tried to tell myself that slipping between universes through some sort of cosmic accident as I had was far different from being able to reproduce such an effect in the controlled conditions of a laboratory, I knew that if anyone could figure out how to do it, Mike was the one. Again I wondered how much of the real Mike was still in there, fighting against Sauron's domination, desperately trying to free himself. If he had any sort of control, surely he would try to stop the Dark Lord from getting very far with that kind of research.

Or would he? Would the prospect of actually achieving what he'd worked toward for so long override his better instincts? I knew Mike, knew he was a good person, but when he was in the grip of one of his obsessions passion often overruled common sense.

All I could do was pray that wouldn't be the case here...

(Scene break...ff.n is being buggy again!)

After the party the weather turned cool and gray, a little unusual for October in Southern California, which often could be quite warm. Still, I didn't mind the change; I always liked fall and winter. Besides, the gloomy skies mirrored my mood perfectly.

On the surface, everything probably looked fine to everyone around me. With the engagement party over with, my mother and I settled into the serious business of Wedding Planning (and I capitalize it on purpose). Mr. Westerfield -- actually, Marcia acting on behalf of Mike's father -- hired a wedding planner named Tricia Dupree who accepted the commission with the air of someone conferring a great favor. I disliked her on sight but knew I couldn't argue with Marcia's choice. Tricia was the best. Tricia did all the high-end weddings in the area. Tricia knew the ins and outs of all the florists, gown designers, hairstylists, blah, blah, blah in the San Gabriel Valley. That she was a self-important bitch with a chip on her shoulder roughly the size of Connecticut didn't seem to factor into the equation. Besides, Smike hated her even more than I did, so having her around to annoy him seemed a small price to pay compared to my own antipathy toward her.

Not that he was around much to be annoyed, unfortunately.

Under other circumstances I would have been happy to have Smike out of the way. Strangely enough, I found I enjoyed living in the pretty Tudor-style house we shared. I suppose it was just because for the first time I was on my own, away from my parents and asserting my independence. The downside, of course, was having to share the place with Smike, but since he was gone so much I often had the house to myself. To my mother's dismay, we lived mainly on takeout and frozen food, since I refused to learn how to cook (maybe someday, but certainly not for Smike's benefit...on the other hand, I could always try poisoning him with my uncertain cooking). I just told her I didn't have time between going to school and getting ready for the wedding. She didn't like the situation, but, bless her, at least she abandoned the argument.

But since I knew that Smike was spending pretty much every spare moment outside the classroom in the labs at Caltech, my unease grew as the weeks passed. Maybe I should have been encouraged that he apparently wasn't finding any easy answers. Mike, however, could be like a dog with a bone when faced with a problem he couldn't solve, and I had the feeling that Sauron was the same way.

Tricia actually snapped at him once when he was late for a lunch appointment, and I saw flash of the Dark Lord in his reply. "Where I go and what I do is no concern of yours," he retorted. "Just keep your mouth shut, and you can continue to cash those fat checks my father gives you."

I'm not sure Tricia Dupree ever had anyone speak to her in such a way. Her face flushed under its layer of expensive cosmetics, and I could see the muscles in her throat tense, but then she swallowed and made some comment about all of us being a little tense because of planning the wedding. Then she pushed out one of the phoniest-sounding laughs I had ever heard and dug back into her cobb salad.

The exchange surprised me a little, because Sauron was usually so good at keeping his true self hidden under a veneer of Mike-style affability. Even with me he usually was pleasant enough, although I know at times I tested his patience with the minutiae of wedding details that I made a point of bringing to his attention with maddening regularity. Maybe the regular sex he was getting had done a lot to temper his mood. But for whatever reason Tricia had plucked his last nerve that day, and I felt a tiny stab of triumph. At least his façade wasn't completely impenetrable.

School continued to go well. My preliminary sketches for _Emma_ were approved, so I was buried in sewing -- and managed to irk Smike even further by using him as the fit model for the Regency tailcoat and breeches I'd designed for Mr. Knightley to wear. I borrowed my friend Lisa to stand in for Emma, and used myself as Jane Fairfax. My instructors preferred that students not use themselves as models, but things were so hectic that I just didn't feel up to trying to do fittings with yet another person whose schedule didn't mesh with mine.

In my spare (ha!) time I also tried to do some research on possession and what a person could do to combat it, but every single instance I read about involved demons and ghosts, and Sauron was neither of those -- at least not in the sense most people meant. If these accounts were to be believed, there was some serious shit going on in the world. In the past I hadn't had much use for the so-called paranormal, but after everything I'd been through I'd decided I'd withhold my judgment until I had more evidence one way or another. The Internet was littered with hundreds of sites sponsored by various paranormal societies; ghost hunters; and mediums of every shape, size, and color; but none of them seemed to have much to do with my particular problem, unfortunately.

One day in early November I finished up my Costume Illustration class and wondered whether I should stay and study in the library or wade through the sea of nightmarish late-afternoon traffic. Rain had started to fall during the lunch hour, and I knew that the 110 Freeway -- no picnic at the best of times -- would be an absolute horror, since Southern California drivers seemed to lose their last two brain cells whenever the first rain of the season started up. I had my portfolio and my laptop with me, so I knew I'd be able to keep myself occupied for the next three hours, which was approximately how long it would take for the sluggish flow of traffic to revert to somewhat bearable levels.

It wasn't as if Smike would miss me; half the time he hadn't been getting home until after nine o'clock at night anyway. Playing the dutiful fiancée, though, I pulled out my cell phone and left him a message on his own cell. As always, it went straight through to his voicemail, but I preferred it that way.

"Hey, sweetie, it's just me," I announced, grinning a little despite myself. Somehow it still amused me to pretend to be the besotted future wife. Besides, you never knew who might overhear a voicemail message on playback. "It's raining buckets over here, and the freeway's a mess. I'm just going to stay at school until around seven and see if it's better then. There's some leftover Chinese in the fridge. Love you!" And then I hung up, noticing as I did so one of the girls from my Studio Design class giving me a sour look.

"How's the Boy Wonder?" asked Theresa Fellowes. "You don't seem to be spending much time with him these days."

Now, Theresa and I have never gotten along. Don't ask me why, because I tend to at least tolerate most people even if I don't want them to be my bosom buddies, but Theresa had always gone out of her way to be snotty to me. Lisa says it's because she's jealous, and maybe that's true. I don't know. The one thing I did know was that I looked forward to graduation if for no other reason than I wouldn't have to deal with Ms. Fellowes ever again.

"Mike's fine," I said. "You know, he's just busy, what with unlocking the secrets of the universe and everything." I slid the cell phone into my purse and caught a twist of Theresa's lips as she apparently watched the flash of the huge diamond on my ring finger. Bitch that she was, she'd made a comment when I first came to class sporting the engagement ring that it had to be fake -- real diamonds weren't that white and sparkly. To which I'd sweetly replied that sure they were -- at least the VVS quarter-million-dollar kinds. Several of the girls around us had sniggered, and Theresa turned bright red. Although I'd scored several points during that round, the exchange certainly hadn't improved our relationship any. "How's your boyfriend?" I asked, knowing full well that they'd broken up the previous week. In a class as small as mine, gossip tended to travel fast.

"Great," she gritted. Obviously she was unwilling to say more than that, but of course she'd never admit to me that things weren't just peachy-keen.

"Fab," I said. "It's been great, but I've got some work to do. See you around." And I sauntered off in the direction of the library, but not before I heard her mutter "bitch" under her breath. I just smiled sweetly and continued on my way. After dealing with Sauron for all this time, I could eat petty wenches like Theresa for breakfast.

Once I got to the library I paused in front of the bulletin board that hung just a few feet in from the entrance. Most of the time the space was occupied with flyers from people looking for roommates, trying to sell cars, or exchanging bus passes and the like. Occasionally notices from other colleges were put up for student productions, lectures, or travel-abroad programs. I wasn't really looking for anything in particular. I just knew I had a long, empty stretch of hours in front of me that I needed to fill, and if I could kill five minutes or so by studying the message board, all the better.

All I saw at first was the usual crap. Then I stood stock-still, forcing myself to take a second look at the flyer that had been thumb-tacked to the upper right-hand corner of the bulletin board. It announced a lecture at USC, one scheduled for early the following week. But that wasn't what had caught my attention. It was the title -- _The Psychology of Possession: Searching for a New Paradigm in the Information Age_. Numb, I read the particulars. It was going to be on the main campus, in the gerontology center, of all places. The guest speakers were a Dr. Walter Morrison and Lorna Morrison, who I presumed were husband and wife and who apparently were experts in the field of possession, according to the sketchy biographical information on the flyer.

Heart pounding a little, I pulled the PDA out of my book bag and jotted down the details. Maybe I was being silly. After all, I'd plowed through a ton of this stuff on the Internet and hadn't found anything of particular use in my situation. But at least these two seemed to be well-respected. Maybe if I had a chance to talk to them, to explain my situation, they might be able to think of some way to help me.

If, of course, they didn't dismiss me as a wacko the minute I opened my mouth. Then again, people who spent their lives researching incidences of demonic possession probably had to be a little more open-minded about the strange and unusual than most. Was it so great a leap from believing that fiends from hell could occupy a human body to believing that an alien intelligence from another world was doing the same thing?

It wasn't until that moment that I realized how badly I needed to confide in someone, to have them tell me I wasn't crazy. I was tired of being strong. I wanted someone to take a little of the burden off my shoulders, even if for just a while. And if they could come up with a solution to my problem, all the better.

As to how exactly I'd approach this Dr. Morrison and his wife, or whether I'd even be allowed to speak to them -- well, those were problems for another day. For now I was content to settle myself in at one of the library's workstations, fire up the laptop, and work away, feeling the first sense of hope I'd experienced in a long while.

Only time would tell whether it, like all my other hopes, was merely a false one.


	6. Demons

OK, so I was really going to wait until the weekend to post this, but I have no self-control, so up it goes. This will be the last update for probably two weeks -- I'm going on vacation next week and doubt I'll have time to write another chapter before then. But if I can squeeze one in, I will...you'll see why when you read the chapter. Oh, and the link to the spoilerific cover art is now in my profile. Thanks for the reviews, everyone -- they make me almost as happy as chocolate!

Six: Demons

It was a very good thing that Smike hadn't been spending too much time at home, because otherwise I don't know how I could have concealed my nervous anticipation as the date of the lecture at USC drew closer. At least I'd managed to pull my wits together enough to tell him we were having a guest speaker at school that night and so I wouldn't be home until late. He'd just nodded absently and continued with his barrage of keystrokes.

Since he'd been sitting at the computer in his office, I couldn't see exactly what he was so preoccupied with. Not that it mattered. Drew had given me a good idea what Smike's current line of investigation probably was, and even if I'd been standing behind my fiancé and staring over his shoulder I probably couldn't have made any sense of what he was working on. As it was, the white marker board that hung on one wall of Mike's office had every square inch covered with incomprehensible symbols and equations, notations that seemed to change from day to day. I'd thought about taking a snapshot of it with my digital camera and sending it off to someone to analyze, but who? It wasn't as if I had a direct line to the physics department at MIT or something. And I'd already pushed my luck with Drew -- if I started nosing around at Caltech word would get out eventually.

After my drunken lapse following the engagement party, I made sure to be doubly on my guard around Smike. I certainly didn't want a repeat of that incident. Just goes to show that excesses of alcohol really do play havoc with the logic circuits in your brain -- I mean, _enjoying_ sex with Sauron? What the hell? I was supposed to be trying to evict him permanently from this dimension, not puffing up his already oversized ego.

Smike's outward behavior (at least when we were alone together) hadn't altered much from its usual half-veiled condescension, for which I was grateful. Not that I really enjoyed dealing with someone who seemed to be perennially amused by my mortal failings, but at least it was the status quo. And if he noticed that I had gotten a little more bristly, he didn't show it. The lack of response made me a little braver, and one day, when we were finishing up a round of Chinese takeout -- since he'd actually made it home in time for dinner -- I asked the question that had been bothering me all along. "Why Mike? There were plenty of other people here at the party whose bodies you could have possessed. And why stay in his body? Why not take over the President or something?"

Smike gave me a look of indulgent contempt. "That moron? I'd go mad having to spend more than five minutes cooped up within such a low-par intellect. As for the rest -- I sensed the minds gathered here, and Mike's was by far the most superior. Add to that the strong connection he felt toward you, which made it that much easier to slide into his body. The choice was obvious."

"So you're saying it's my fault?" I asked, an unopened fortune cookie frozen between my thumb and forefinger.

"'Fault?'" Smike repeated. He spooned the last of the mu shu pork into his mouth, chewed contemplatively, then inquired, "Feeling guilty, Sarah? I spoke only of a combination of factors that came into play."

Bastard. I cracked open the fortune cookie, but it had nothing further to add beyond stating, _You are fortunate in your friends. Your lucky numbers are 4, 9, 13, & 22_. Scowling a little, I balled up the tiny slip of paper and tossed it on the table, then crunched away on half the cookie. "I don't feel guilty," I said at last.

"I am glad to hear it. Guilt is a useless expenditure of energy."

_You would say that, wouldn't you?_ I thought. _Certainly you've never wasted a moment's worry about the lives you've wasted, the pain you've caused._ If nothing else, Sauron was probably the most pure sociopath I'd ever had the misfortune to meet. His only interest in other people seemed to be in regard to how he could use them. For whatever reason, he still found me useful -- for getting his rocks off, I guessed. I didn't want to think about what might happen when he tired of me or decided he no longer needed me to provide a safe cover for him in this universe.

But of course I said nothing of that. Instead I just gave him a fake-sweet smile -- the kind calculated to be irritating -- and said, "Well, I'm learning from the master." Then I gathered up my plate and marched off into the kitchen.

From behind me I thought I heard Smike chuckle. So much for annoying him. A few seconds later he came into the kitchen as well, then set his plate down on the counter next to the sink. He took the plate and dish brush out of my hands, and put them aside.

"Is it really so bad, Sarah?" he asked. He watched me carefully. Once I had viewed those dark eyes as friendly, alive with the rapid-fire thoughts generated by Mike's ever-active mind. Now, with Sauron behind them, those same brown eyes were cold, inhuman. Not soulless, exactly -- you could see the intelligence at work behind them. But their warmth had disappeared.

I knew what was coming next. After so many times, I didn't bother to flinch.

His hand brushed against my hair. "Do I hurt you?" he murmured. "Do I abuse you? Sometimes I've gotten the impression you were enjoying yourself."

I should have known he'd bring that up at some point. "In case you hadn't noticed, I was drunk. As for the rest -- no, I suppose you don't beat me or anything like that. But let me disabuse you of the notion that I like any of what you do. I tolerate it, because I have to. And sometimes I can almost make myself believe that it's Mike who's touching me. Not that that's anything I'd wanted, either, but it's still better than the truth."

Of course my words seemed to have no effect. He only smiled a little, saying, "Then tell yourself it's Mike who does this," before he pulled me against him and kissed me, hard.

I tried to make myself believe it -- then, and during everything that followed. It was only much later, as Smike slept next to me and I stared out into the dark room, that I thought, _I don't want it to be Mike lying here next to me. The only man I want is dead._

And I turned my face into the pillow and wept silently. I'd become very good at that over the past month or so, at letting the tears flow with no betraying quiver of my body, no sobs that could penetrate the Dark Lord's sleep and bring him any kind of satisfaction.

If only tears could bring him back. Certainly it felt as if I'd shed enough since Gorendil had died to fill the sea that separated Middle Earth from the Undying Lands. Too bad my fallen Nazgûl lord couldn't find some Elvish ship and sail back to me.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The lecture at USC was held on a Wednesday night, so luckily I had only a few hours between the time my last class ended and the lecture actually began. I did some shopping at the student store at FIDM and scored some fabulous black beaded trim for only a dollar a yard -- what I'd do with it, I had no idea, but I was sure it would come in handy at some point. Then I wandered the stores on Santee Alley until they closed around six. After that I slipped into a sandwich shop, ate an early dinner while keeping an eye on my watch, and then finally retrieved my car from the garage where I'd parked it and traveled the three miles or so down the 110 Freeway to USC.

It was a damp night; fog had already rolled in from off the coast, making weird little haloes around the lamps that illuminated the parking lot closest to the auditorium where the talk was being held. Although the lot was nowhere near as full as it would have been during peak school hours, I did see a good number of cars, as well as people walking alone or in small groups, all moving toward a nondescript two-story building of beige stone. That cheered me up a little. At least I wasn't the only person to be interested in this sort of crazy stuff. Besides, I hate empty parking lots. Heroines in screamer movies always seem to get jumped in empty parking lots, and I had enough to worry about without adding "crime victim" to the list of things occupying my mind.

The auditorium looked as if it could hold around three hundred or so and was already about half full by the time I slid into a seat at the end of an row slightly closer to the front of the room than the back. Several of the people around me held laptops or lower-tech note-taking apparatus; I wondered whether some of them might be psychology students out to get a little extra credit. But most of the crowd didn't seem to be college kids -- I saw people of all age groups and ethnicities, some with nervous, worried faces that told me they might be there for more personal reasons than just because the lecture had sounded interesting.

I wondered then what people might see when they looked at me.

Just past seven-thirty the room darkened a little, and the overhead lighting on the stage blared on. A pudgy-looking man in a beige sport coat came onstage and introduced the demon-hunting couple. I sat up a little straighter in my battered plush seat, almost holding my breath as Walter and Lorna Morrison walked out and thanked him, then took their place behind the podium.

They looked -- well, they looked completely normal. Now, I wasn't really sure what to expect from people whose bios claimed they had helped people in hundreds of cases of demonic possession and oppression, but I'd had some sort of image of exorcists in long black overcoats or psychics in capes or whatever. Nothing could have been further from the truth. Both of them seemed to be in their middle or late fifties -- Walter was a heavy-set man with thinning dark hair, wearing khakis and a blue sweater, while Lorna looked as if she could have been one of Mike's Aunt Jocelyn's ladies who lunch -- perfectly coiffed auburn hair, pearls around her throat, simple but elegant dark suit and sleek black pumps. I wondered absently if she wore those stiletto heels while stomping out demons.

But then they started to speak, and soon after that pretty much every sarcastic thought I had about their chosen profession got chased out the door. First off, they were very careful to discuss the psychology involved in demonic possession, and how ninety-nine times out of a hundred a possession could be explained through completely rational means -- schizophrenia, disassociative personality disorder (or multiple personalities, to the layman), even Tourette's. And that wasn't just the psychological disturbances, but even the cases of extreme physical strength or instances where people's heart rate or respiration was reduced to practically nothing.

"All these things," Lorna Morrison said, in a soft Virginia accent, "are of course ruled out before any further steps are taken. But it is that remaining one percent which concerns us here. It is the instances where a subject speaks in a dead language that he or she cannot possibly have ever heard before, where a person levitates objects, or causes the temperature in a room to drop twenty degrees. None of these phenomena have ever been adequately explained by science. It is through our years of working with people afflicted by these traumatic experiences that we have come to understand that the universe is a much larger, more frightening place than we could possibly imagine."

_Amen to that, sister_, I thought. I'd already seen far more than I could ever explain -- or even wanted to.

At that point Walter Morrison took his turn at the microphone. He, too, sounded as if he were from the eastern half of the country, but more New England. My father's parents were from Boston, and his accent was almost identical to theirs. "The words 'demon' and 'devil' of course conjure up the typical Judeo-Christian milieu of fallen angels, that sort of thing. But the concept of demonic possession is universal -- cases have been recorded in almost every country around the world. Perhaps it's better to think of these entities as alien intelligences -- they are not human, they come from outside this plane of existence, and in many cases they are hostile to humanity."

Well, that certainly described Sauron to a T. If the Morrisons weren't set on thinking of possession as strictly a demonic manifestation, maybe I would have half a chance at getting them to believe me.

"Some cases of possession are actually benign," Lorna put in. "These instances are sometimes referred to as 'channeling' and are a popular form of communication in psychics. The spirit or entity 'possesses' the medium, who is used as the vessel that receives the knowledge or information the entity is trying to pass on. In channeling the medium welcomes the possession and makes him- or herself open to it. In true cases of hostile or demonic possession, however, the victim is taken over by forces he cannot control, forces which in some cases lead to serious injury or even death." Her dark eyes seemed to scan the audience. I knew it wasn't possible, but for a second it seemed as if they rested on me. Then again, she was supposed to be some sort of psychic herself, wasn't she? At least that's what I had read in her biography on the Internet.

I burrowed back into my seat, feeling a sudden chill rise up on the back of my neck. Lorna Morrison smiled slightly, her gaze shifting elsewhere.

"What you are about to see may be disturbing," Walter said. "Some of these images have never been viewed in public before. But so often when we discuss possession, skeptics say that all this can be explained, that there are no alien entities involved in these cases. 'Where is the proof?' they ask." He looked very somber. "Here is just a small sample of some of the things we've witnessed over the years."

With that the auditorium darkened, and the podium was wheeled off to one side so as not to obstruct the large screen that descended from the ceiling above the stage. Walter continued to speak from his position on the far left of the stage as the first images appeared on screen -- a little grainy, as if from an older video camera.

"This first clip is from a case of possession we consulted on in 1984. As you can see, the victim is clearly levitating."

And she was. A thin woman in her early thirties lay suspended above her bed, with at least eighteen inches of empty space separating the nightgown that drooped from her shaking limbs and the sweat-stained sheets upon which she had lain. Maybe the whole thing could have been faked, but somehow I doubted it. As she hovered there, she made horrible, guttural growling sounds. They didn't sound human. They didn't even sound animal. They just sounded..._other_.

I could feel the individual hairs lifting on the back of my neck. Then I sneaked a look at the older Hispanic woman who sat to my right. Something rattled in her fingers, and I glanced down. In her hands she clutched a rosary, and I could see her shaking as she hung onto it as if it were the only thing separating her from the abyss.

With a swallow I turned my attention back to the screen, but it didn't get any better. More cases of levitation. A particularly gruesome shot where raised letters in some alphabet I had never seen before spontaneously erupted out of a boy's chest and then began to bleed. A black vapor that rose up out of a child's dollhouse and began to advance menacingly toward the camera. I never saw what happened with that one, because whoever had been shooting the video had wisely chosen to pick up and run. And shots of people with dead, empty eyes speaking in languages I'd never heard before, although one of them might have been Latin.

After about fifteen minutes the parade of horrible images ended. The lights came back on in the auditorium, and Walter and Lorna Morrison faced a shaken crowd.

"We don't do this to frighten people, or to shock them," said Lorna in her soft southern accent. "As we've said, these are isolated cases. Most of the time, possession can be explained by psychological or physical means. But I think we can all see that the proof does exist to show that in rare instances we are dealing with powers alien to us."

"We're often asked 'why?'," added Walter. "Trying to understand the reasoning of these entities is often impossible. But in many cases of demonic oppression and possession the victim has opened himself to these dark powers in some way -- unthinkingly, of course. Nevertheless, those who are already depressed, those who abuse drugs and alcohol, often make themselves a gateway. Also, playing with a Ouija board or some other type of device that allows open-ended communication to the spirit world is an invitation to these entities. We cannot stress enough how dangerous that can be."

Well, I'd never seen Mike playing with a Ouija board -- or caring much about the paranormal in any sense. Like most scientists, he'd always asserted that there was a rational explanation for everything, and that spirits and ghosts didn't exist. Or, as he put it, there might be odd forms of energy loose on the planet, but they could be all be explained. Then he'd invariably start going off about particles and waves until I was forced to throw a pillow at him and tell him to shut up before my ears started to bleed.

No, Mike hadn't invited Sauron in. But Sauron himself had admitted that it was Mike's intellect -- and his attachment to me -- that made him the logical choice to be the vessel that held the Dark Lord's spirit.

"In the rarest cases," Lorna Morrison said, "there is no reason for the possession at all. The people affected have no psychological problems, no emotional issues. Often they are devoutly religious, or at the very least people who have led blameless lives. In these instances, one is led to surmise that the possession occurs simply out of spite -- that is, the entity has taken control of this person just to prove that it can. As you might guess, these are also the cases where an exorcism is most likely to fail." Even from this distance Lorna Morrison's dark eyes looked very sad, and I wondered what horrific scenes she might be recalling at that moment.

Spite I could understand. Sauron was awfully good at spite. Unfortunately, that didn't bode very well for Mike's future.

"What we want to leave you with," Walter said, "is not a feeling of horror, or fear. Yes, terrible things do happen, but anyone who watches the evening news knows that. Although the images we saw were terrible, know that in almost every case those people received the spiritual assistance they needed and returned to their normal lives."

One could almost feel the sense of relief that swept through the watching audience members. I know I hadn't wanted to consider the possibility that all the people in those videos had been damned forever.

Lorna added, "Rather, we want you to understand that there are many things in this world that can't be completely explained by science. It always helps to keep an open mind. Even now, in this age of technology and information, you sometimes have to go on faith." She smiled then. "Thank you."

The lights came back up. Everyone sat in their seats, looking a bit stunned, until some scattered clapping began. I joined in, and applause filled the auditorium. But Lorna and Walter Morrison seemed to have disappeared backstage. Obviously they weren't going to come out for an encore. Then again, this wasn't a rock concert.

But damn. I was hoping they'd have some sort of question-and-answer period afterward, some way where it would be easy for me to approach them. Obviously that wasn't going to happen. Time to resort to Plan B.

Luckily I had only brought my purse with me, so I was traveling light. I snatched it up from its place at my feet and waited for the rest of the people in my row to clear out so I could get to the aisle without tripping over someone. Then I made my way down toward the front of the auditorium. Concealed there behind some curtains was a door that looked as if it went backstage.

I threw a quick glance around, just to make sure no security guards were looking in my direction. I did see two campus police officers, but they stood over by the exits in the far wall of the building, and neither of them seemed to be paying any attention to me. So I lifted the handle of the door and quietly let myself backstage.

Not that it was much of a backstage area. This was a hall used for visiting lecturers and that sort of thing, not theatrical productions, and I saw none of the usual chaos associated with the shows I'd worked on -- props, costume pieces, backdrops, cases for musical instruments, that sort of thing. Around me sat some stacks of folding chairs, a table that looked as if it had been used for someone's coffee break judging by the empty Starbucks cups sitting on it, and an old torn movie screen that no one had bothered to remove.

But off toward the rear of the backstage space I heard voices, and I walked quickly in that direction, trying to decide what I should say. At least I'd made sure to wear something respectable and stylish; my dark denim jeans and short tweed blazer, along with a pair of kitten-heeled Marc Jacobs boots I hadn't been able to resist, gave off an image of chic professionalism. It wasn't the sort of ensemble that would be worn by a kook -- or at least I hoped it wasn't.

The conversation ended up abruptly as I came around the corner and faced Lorna and Walter Morrison, who had been standing at the open rear door of the auditorium. It faced out onto the parking lot; probably they were waiting for a car to pick them up. Off to one side the pudgy man in the sport coat who had introduced them shot an irritated look at me.

"What are you doing back here?" he demanded.

"Well, I -- " Now that the moment had come, I felt like a complete idiot. What the heck was I going to say that wouldn't make me sound as if I should be shipped straight off the loony bin? "I really needed to talk to the Morrisons."

Walter Morrison's pleasant expression never changed, but once again I felt Lorna's appraising gaze fall on me. It was like being placed under a microscope.

"She's in some sort of trouble, I think," she said after a few seconds. "It's no accident that she's here tonight." The dark eyes held mine. "Someone close to you?"

I nodded. "It's my -- well, he's -- " How the hell could I explain the whole Mike situation to them? Faltering a bit on the word, I finished, "It's my fiancé. He's possessed."

Sport-coat man made a brief disgusted sound, but Walter asked immediately, "What makes you think that?"

"Well -- " I trailed off, then gave a significant look in the direction of the sport coat.

Walter nodded. "I think we can handle this, Robert. Thank you for taking care of everything tonight."

"You mean you're actually going to let her -- "

"Robert," Lorna cut in. "Let us speak to her alone."

He gave me a look of barely concealed hostility, but just nodded. "Call me from the hotel if you need anything."

"Of course." Lorna gave him a radiant smile. Her teeth were perfect.

Thank God he took off after that, leaving the three of us to stare at each other for a moment.

"Your fiancé?" Walter asked.

"Right." I took a breath, then another. Even with Mr. Sport Coat gone, this wasn't going to be easy. "I know this sounds insane, but the reason I know my fiancé is possessed is because he told me so himself. He's very proud of it."

The Morrisons exchanged a quick glance.

Crap. That really hadn't come out the way I wanted it to. "Look, you mentioned that the possessing entities are alien intelligences. Well, that's exactly what's going on here. I know it for a fact because I had interactions with this same entity...elsewhere. Only now it's here, and it's in Mike's body."

"Mike is your fiancé?" Walter asked.

"Yes," I replied. "I mean, not exactly. Everyone thinks it's Mike I'm engaged to, but it's really Sauron who made me do it."

Lorna's right eyebrow lifted. "Sauron. As in the evil being from the _Lord of the Rings_?"

Well, at least I wouldn't have to explain that part. "OK, I know I sound like some fangirl who's just watched the movies one too many times, but that's really who it is in Mike's body. I know, because I was there."

"'There?'" repeated Walter. "As in _Middle Earth_ there?"

It was over. They already thought I was a complete nutcase. I should have just told them it was Beelzebub or something easy. But I was already in too deep. "Yes. I went to Middle Earth and screwed things up, but I managed to fix them in the end by dying. Or at least I thought I was dying, but I didn't -- I came back home. Unfortunately, Sauron tagged along for the ride."

Walter shot a speculative glance at his wife.

"She's telling the truth," Lorna said. "At least, the truth as she sees it. I can't detect any deception."

"Why would I lie about this stuff?" I demanded. "I had a perfectly normal life before all this crap started happening. Believe me, I never asked for any of it. Besides, you yourself said in there that these entities weren't really demons as we see it -- they're just alien intelligences. So why should Sauron be any harder to believe in than the Devil?"

For the longest moment neither Walter nor Lorna said anything. It seemed as if some invisible communication passed back and forth between them. Maybe it did. I hadn't read anywhere that Walter was psychic, but maybe after being married to one for almost thirty years he'd picked up some of the ability. Or maybe it was just the rapport that long-married couples seemed to share.

"We should talk about this some more -- what is your name, dear?" Lorna said at last.

"Sarah," I replied.

"Sarah -- we will talk to you, of course. But I do have to tell you that we're flying out of LAX tomorrow morning -- we have a case in Texas that we've been called in to consult on, and we can't break the engagement."

I know the disappointment must have been plain on my face, for she hurried on to add, "We do have someone who's assisted us with cases here in Southern California in the past. Would you mind meeting with him, to see if possibly he can help you?"

"Sure," I said, trying not to sound discouraged. I wasn't sure I liked being fobbed off on someone else, but at least they hadn't flat-out told me to get lost.

Walter already had pulled a cell phone out of his pants pocket and was dialing a number. He paused for a moment, apparently waiting for the call to connect, and then said, "Will? Walter Morrison. We've had a case come up here that we might need you to consult on. Could you meet us at the Bistro at the Bonaventure?" A small silence as he listened to the reply. "Great -- see you then." He hung up, glancing over toward me. "I suppose I should have asked if it was all right to head over to our hotel's restaurant after this."

"Oh, no, it's fine," I said immediately. I'd just call Smike on the way over to the hotel and tell him that some of the girls and I had decided to go out for dessert at the Pantry after the school lecture he thought I'd been attending.

"Do you know how to get to the Bonaventure?" Lorna asked.

"Sure. I go to school downtown. I know the area really well."

"Then we'll meet you in the Lakeview Bistro in a few minutes," she replied.

Relieved that I hadn't been forced to plead my case further, I said, "Thank you so much." Even though nothing had been settled, they hadn't told me to clear off. At least they were apparently willing to listen to my story.

She smiled, and Walter held the door open for me so I could head out into the parking lot to retrieve my car. From there I popped back on to the 110, heading up into downtown, but not before I called Smike's cell and left a message that I would be out a little later than I had planned. Since all I had gotten was his voicemail, I assumed he was still busy in the lab at Caltech. Or maybe he had already gone to bed, although it wasn't that late -- barely nine o'clock, the display on my car stereo informed me.

The parking at the Bonaventure was slightly hideous, just like all other parking in downtown L.A., but I had about forty bucks in cash on me, thank God. The sign in the parking garage advertised that they took credit cards, but I didn't want to risk that. About a week after Mike's father learned of our engagement he'd given me a shiny new platinum Visa for "whatever you need," as he put it, but I'd been too intimidated to use it for much more than gas and groceries. The Marc Jacobs boots I'd bought out of my own savings. However, the last thing I felt like doing was trying to explain why I'd charged the card for parking at the Bonaventure hotel on a night when I'd told Mike I'd be at school.

I parked the car and made my way into the hotel lobby. The Bistro was located on the ground floor, a striking eating area surrounded by little waterfalls and flowing streams. The Morrisons were seated at a table a little out of the way, back against the far wall. Somehow they'd gotten there before me, but then I'd delayed a little while I sat in the USC parking lot and made my call to Smike.

I sat down in the seat they indicated, feeling a little nervous. They both ordered coffee, but I knew if I drank any caffeine that late I'd have a hell of a time falling asleep. So I asked the waitress for a Sprite instead.

Both Walter and Lorna kept the conversation casual; they asked me about where I was going to school, and I explained about the costume design coursework I was doing at the Fashion Institute. I talked a little about my family, and mentioned that I was from San Marino.

"Well, that will be helpful," Walter commented. "Since Will's based in Pasadena. I was worried that you might be out on the Westside or something."

"Pasadena?" I asked hopefully. "Then we're practically neighbors."

"And there he is," Lorna said, raising a hand in greeting to someone I couldn't see. "Will -- we're over here."

I turned to look over my shoulder in the direction she had waved. A tall dark-haired man had begun to thread his way through the tables.

The breath seemed to strangle in my throat. No -- it wasn't possible -- I had to be hallucinating --

Then he stopped next to our table, looking down at the three of us as a pleasant smile touched his lips. All the same -- the clear gray eyes, the hawkish nose, the wide thin-lipped mouth. No scar cut across his right cheek, and his dark hair was worn short, as it had been in my dream. But he was still Gorendil.

I barely had a chance to register the somber black garments he wore, the white collar that encircled his throat.

Then Walter Morrison said, "Sarah, I'd like you to meet Father Gordon."


	7. Ghosts

Well, I decided I couldn't torture with that horrible cliffie any more, so I managed to get this out before I really, truly disappear for the next five days. Luckily this one isn't quite as cliffhanger-y, because I probably won't be able to update again until the end of next week. Thanks for the reviews, everyone!

* * *

Seven: Ghosts

All I could do was sit there, staring at him, mouth slightly dropped. My mind exploded with a hundred different contradictory thoughts, but after the feeling that I was going to faint at any second passed, what pushed its way to the front of my brain was an overwhelming sense of anger. It wasn't fair! To have been separated, to have suffered and died, then brought back to this world somehow -- only to find that my long-lost lover was a _priest_?

My mouth and brain weren't cooperating very well. I blurted out the first thing that came to my mind: "But I'm not Catholic!"

He smiled then, that heartbreaking uplift of the mouth I remembered so well. "That's all right. Neither am I."

Again I felt as if something hard had been whacked against the back of my head.

"Father Gordon is a vicar at All Saints Episcopal church in Pasadena," Lorna said gently. Those searching dark eyes scanned me briefly. "Are you all right, dear? You look as if you've seen a ghost."

I managed to get out a halfway normal-sounding laugh. "I'm sorry. I just -- I suppose I should have realized that someone who's helped you with other exorcisms might be a minister or something."

Gorendil -- Father Gordon, I mean -- settled himself down into the one empty chair at our table. Just having him sit that close to me was almost overwhelming. All I wanted to do was throw myself into his arms, have him hold me and reassure me that he was here for me now and always. But of course I couldn't do that. This man who seemed to be an identical twin to the former Lord of the Nazgûl was looking at me with friendly but puzzled eyes. I saw no spark of recognition there, nothing but concerned interest.

He spoke then. His voice did sound somewhat different; no longer the full, rounded accents I had encountered in the people of Middle Earth. Like Walter, he sounded as if he could be from Boston or somewhere else in the Northeast. "It's not the first time I've encountered that assumption -- popular culture has made it seem as if only the Catholic church gets involved in exorcisms these days."

"Not that they like to admit it," added Walter, sounding amused.

I saw the familiar crinkling of the lines around his eyes as this Father Gordon smiled slightly in response. "Can you blame them?"

Considering what I'd heard and seen at the Morrisons' lecture, I sure as hell couldn't. My own problems had crowded out some of the message, but it was fairly obvious that some extremely scary stuff went on even in a world I had thought of as impossibly mundane. Maybe I should have counted myself lucky that my only problem was a sociopathic dark lord bent on world domination and not some inhuman entity that made Mike spout epithets in dead languages or dangle upside-down off the ceiling.

Lorna Morrison shook her head. "We called you, Will, since you're our contact in the area for these sorts of things, but I think you'll find that Sarah's case is a little different."

The flint-gray eyes shifted toward me. I looked away; maybe that wasn't the smartest thing to do, since somehow I needed to project a trustworthy appearance and convince him that my situation was very real, but I couldn't trust myself to meet his gaze at that moment. I still felt a little too shell-shocked.

"Different how?" he asked.

Both Lorna and Walter remained silent. Obviously they wanted me to explain the situation myself.

Stalling for time, I took a sip of my Sprite. But that only delayed things for a few seconds, and reluctantly I set my glass down on the table, then folded my hands in my lap. "My fiancé is possessed," I said.

"What makes you think so?" His voice sounded kind, but I heard nothing except a sort of disinterested concern in it. It seemed that my having a fiancé didn't matter one bit to him.

Again I hesitated. I'd lived with the situation for so long now that it had begun to seem normal to me, but now that I had to explain everything to this man who could be Gorendil's long-lost twin brother, the insanity of my current dilemma struck me with renewed force. "Well, he's admitted it, for one thing."

One eyebrow went up, but otherwise Father Gordon did not react.

"I know this is going to sound completely crazy," I went on, knowing that I had better just lay everything on the line and hope for the best. "But a few months ago I went to Middle Earth."

"As in _Lord of the Rings_ Middle Earth?"

"Yes,"I replied.

At that inopportune moment the waitress showed up and asked Father Gordon if he would like some coffee. He nodded, and we all waited as she filled his cup and then disappeared once again. In the awkward silence that followed, he tipped a few ice cubes out of his water glass into the coffee, then raised it to his lips and blew on it a few times. It was only after he had taken a cautious sip that he said, "And you truly believe this?"

"She does," said Lorna, before I could answer. "I've felt nothing but sincerity from her."

"I know it sounds as if I'm delusional or had a psychotic break or something like that," I added. "But I did go there -- and unfortunately I brought something back with me."

"Sauron, to be precise," Walter commented.

Father Gordon looked from Walter to Lorna, one corner of his mouth lifted as if he wanted to smile but didn't quite dare. "The lord of Mordor?" he asked finally.

"So you've heard of him," I said, feeling a bit annoyed. Oh, I knew that I was expecting a bit much if I thought the mere mention of Sauron or Middle Earth was enough for recognition to suddenly leap into his eyes and for him to sweep me into his arms and declare his undying, world-transcending love for me. Still, it was frustrating and unnerving for me to be having a conversation with a man whose every movement, every gesture reminded me of the love I had lost. How could he be here, anyway? Was he Gorendil reborn? But how was that possible, when I had returned to this world within a few seconds of the time I had left it? And even if that were somehow the case, wouldn't he have shown at least a flicker of recognition when he met me?

"Of course," Father Gordon replied. "I read the trilogy in high school and again in college, and I saw the films when they came out as well."

I suppose I should have realized that. The books were already a part of popular culture, after all, and the enormous success of the films only brought the story to even more people. Just because this William Gordon was an Episcopal priest didn't mean he'd been living under a rock his entire life. "Good," I said. "Because that saves me having to explain a lot of back story."

And with that I gave them the whole tale, starting with Mike and how we'd been friends forever -- unlikely friends, I suppose, considering that he'd always been sort of nerdy and I was fairly popular, but friends nonetheless. It had started out simply because I, the new girl, had been seated next to him in the honors social studies section to which I'd been assigned when my family moved to San Marino, but the friendship had grown from there. After all, who can really explain what makes two people develop a rapport? We did have some common interests -- movies, for one, even though he was more into effects and I was fascinated by the costumes -- and somehow we'd managed to stay friends all through high school. Although I guess in Mike's case he'd hoped the relationship could be more than friendship one day. Poor Mike.

I related as much as I could of my adventures in Middle Earth, but I refused to say anything about the love affair that had blossomed between the Lord of the Nazgûl and myself. It was too awkward for me to even begin to describe what had happened with Gorendil as his döppelganger sat there intently listening to my story. Of course I had to explain some sort of friendship or understanding between the two of us, or his decision to rise up against his master at the end made absolutely no sense at all.

Whether I was entirely successful at convincing my audience was doubtful. Lorna had a look on her face that told me she'd guessed there were some Grand Canyon–sized holes in my story, and Walter kept his expression politely blank. And Father Gordon -- well, he listened to the entire tale with one eyebrow at a permanent tilt, as if he were trying to decide whether he'd been called down here on a weeknight for what sounded like a complete joke.

"So anyway," I concluded, doggedly pushing ahead even though I felt by then as if I'd been walking uphill for two miles. "When Sauron and I fell into Mount Doom, I felt him holding on to my wrist. Then I somehow came back here, and I thought I'd gotten away, but later that night I found out that somehow he'd come along for the ride and had taken over Mike's body. And he's been here ever since."

Well, at least I'd gotten it all out of my system. I took another long pull at my Sprite, then waited.

The silence seemed to go on forever. Finally Father Gordon spoke. "So -- maybe I'm a little confused. Were you engaged to Mike before you went to Middle Earth?"

"No," I said. "We were just friends."

"So Sauron -- in Mike's body -- is forcing you to marry him?" Although his tone sounded mostly neutral, I could tell Father Gordon was having a hard time keeping the incredulity from his voice.

"I know it seems nuts," I said. "Believe me, I don't know why he's doing it -- except to torture me, of course. He said as much to me that first night." I shut my eyes for a moment, reliving the horror of that scene as if it had just happened yesterday. "'If my only pleasure in this world is to come from causing you torment, then that is my goal' were his exact words, if I remember correctly."

Lorna and Walter exchanged a brief glance, and even Father Gordon looked a little disturbed.

"He's up to something," I went on, knowing I had to keep on with my story. That last revelation seemed to have shaken my audience a bit. "I don't know what for sure, because he keeps his computer password-locked, and I probably wouldn't understand any of it even if I could get into his files. But his friend Drew said Mike was really interested in parallel universes, that sort of thing. And not just proving that they exist, but somehow communicating with them, traveling to them. If Sauron ever figures out how to use Mike's knowledge to do that -- " I trailed off, and let the three of them figure out the implications for themselves.

"I'm not used to being the skeptic," said Father Gordon after a moment. "And Lorna believes you, which counts for a lot in my book. But still -- do you have any proof? Any proof at all that this isn't just some wild story?"

I thought for a moment of Walter and Lorna's video archive with its gruesome images of people behaving in ways contrary to the normal laws of nature. Certainly I had nothing similar on Sauron -- and I got the feeling that he probably wouldn't accommodate a request to let me record him speaking in ancient Numenorean or anything like that. And even if I were stupid enough to let the Morrisons talk to Smike (which I wasn't...and obviously I couldn't let Father Gordon get within five miles of the erstwhile Dark Lord), of course he wouldn't do or say anything incriminating. What I needed was a piece of physical evidence. But what? I had nothing to show for time in Middle Earth...nothing except --

"My gown!" I exclaimed.

"What gown?" asked Walter.

"The dress I was wearing when I came back from Middle Earth," I replied. God, things had been so nuts the past few months I'd almost forgotten about the damn gown. Maybe the proof that I had been to Middle Earth and back had been hanging in my closet all this time. "When I got back here I was wearing something different from what I'd worn to Mike's party. The first dress got completely trashed when I was in Middle Earth, and so of course I had a different one on when I came back to San Marino. Maybe you could have someone do a fiber analysis on the fabric or analyze the metal content of the buttons or something."

Lorna gave Father Gordon a significant look. "Do you know anyone locally who could help you with that, Will? We have some contacts in the FBI, but they're all on the East Coast..."

He frowned, then lifted the coffee cup to his lips and took a small drink before replying. "Not the local FBI bureau, but I could talk to Raoul Ortiz -- he's a detective with the Pasadena P.D. We've had a few contacts in the past, community outreach, that sort of thing. He could probably put me in touch with the right people."

Walter looked over at me. "Can you get the dress to Father Gordon, Sarah?"

"I think so," I replied. "I mean, I don't see why not. I moved it into the costume closet in my studio over the garage, and Mike hardly ever goes in there. I'm sure he'd never realize it was missing." Then I forced myself to look at Father Gordon directly, to meet those eyes which had once been so filled with love for me. "If the physical evidence proves that I really did go to Middle Earth, then will you help me?"

He smiled. "Sarah, I'll help you even if the evidence is inconclusive. Walter and Lorna believe you, and their faith isn't something to be taken lightly." The smile deepened. "But of course a bit of conclusive proof wouldn't hurt, either."

I had to look away then, my vision blurring a bit. It wasn't just the devastating effect of that familiar smile on the face of this stranger. No, it was the sudden realization that I wasn't completely alone any longer. Even if I still had some convincing to do, Walter and Lorna...and Father Gordon...at least were on my side. They wanted to help me. And none of them had told me I was crazy. That meant more than I could say, because some tiny corner of my brain had begun to wonder whether I was simply delusional and thinking I had dreamed all this up just because I didn't want to admit that I'd been in love with Mike all along. But that wasn't the truth -- even if it maybe made more sense than what had actually happened.

We made plans for me to stop by Father Gordon's offices the next afternoon with the dress; I was done with class by noon on Tuesdays and Thursdays, so running over to All Saints after school wouldn't be a problem. I'd just tote a few of my current works-in-progress down to the car with the silver gown sandwiched in between them, so even if Smike saw me taking the dress out of the house he'd just think it was part of my class project. Not that I was too worried; he tended to ignore my own school work, considering it of little importance. At least he hadn't made any more noises about me not attending FIDM.

And then I had to leave, since it was after ten and I knew I'd better head back to San Marino before Smike got too suspicious. I thanked Walter and Lorna, then nodded to Father Gordon's cheerful "See you tomorrow!"and hurried out of the restaurant.

I didn't want to admit to myself how much I was looking forward to that meeting...

* * *

Even though it's not that far from downtown Los Angeles to San Marino, the trip took me more than half an hour because frigging Caltrans had chosen that particular evening to shut down one of the lanes on the 110 Freeway for repair work. By the time I pulled into the garage, the digital clock on my stereo told me it was ten minutes to eleven. Not good. 

Praying that Smike had worn himself out with the daily round of unlocking the secrets to the universe, I let myself into the house. Only one lamp on a side table was on, and I didn't see any sign of Smike. In the evenings he tended to work on his laptop in the living room with the television on in the background; for some reason the unending parade of talk shows, self-improvement programs, movies, and news outlets fascinated him. Thank God he'd never gotten into sports.

Quietly I set my purse down in its usual spot on the floor next to the phone table, then made my way down the hallway to the bedroom. If Smike were already asleep there was a very good chance I wouldn't wake him -- he slept like the dead most of the time.

But of course I should have known I wouldn't be that lucky. I hadn't taken five steps down the hall before Smike appeared in the door of his office, wearing the faded black T-shirt and plaid boxers that were his usual sleeping attire. "Where the hell have you been?"

I could only hope I didn't look as guilty as I felt. Which was just stupid, considering I hadn't done anything wrong. Well, maybe on the drive home I'd had a few impure thoughts about Father Gordon, but I think I could be excused for that considering the situation. Forcing myself to sound casual and unconcerned, I replied, "I told you -- there was a lecture at school. One of the costume designers for _Deadwood_ was visiting and gave a talk about bustle construction."

"Until eleven o'clock at night?" His scowl told me what he thought of my explanation.

"Didn't you check your voicemail? I called and said I was going to the Pantry afterward with a couple of the girls from class."

"I got the message." He crossed his arms. "But I don't think that would take you almost two hours, would it?"

"Well, yeah, it would, since they were doing a bunch of construction on the 110 and the drive home took forever." I narrowed my eyes at him. "Go look it up on the Web if you don't believe me."

For a few seconds he was silent, obviously weighing my excuses and seeing if they added up to a plausible story.

"Getting suspicious in your old age, aren't you, Sauron, dear?" I made no attempt to keep the scorn from my voice. "If you don't believe me, give my friend Courtney a call and ask her -- although she probably won't appreciate being woken up, since she lives in Koreatown and had to have gotten home way before I did."

This was a complete bluff; Courtney Cho and I were school friends, but not close the way Lisa and I were. Lisa would probably lie under oath for me if necessary. I'd thought about asking Courtney to cover for me in case Smike started asking questions, but that would have inevitably led to inquiries as to what I was doing during the time I was supposed to be with her and why I'd be lying to my fiancé about it. The possible benefits hadn't been worth the risk.

Again Smike said nothing. I stared back at him, keeping an expression of annoyed innocence on my face. If nothing else, this whole situation had taught me to be a very good liar.

"Do you really think I'd be stupid enough to be running around on you?" I asked. "Don't you think I know what the stakes are here?"

That comment finally elicited a response. Smike lifted his chin and gave me an unpleasant smile. "Do you, Sarah? Do you really?" The dark eyes flickered as he looked back at me intently. "But I suppose you do have just enough intelligence to realize that deceiving me would be very, very foolish."

I held his stare, refusing to back down, not allowing myself to blink. He had to believe that I had told him the simple truth, because if he began to doubt me now matters would become only more difficult as time wore on and I began to work with Father Gordon in trying to discover a way to banish Sauron permanently from Mike's body.

Whatever he saw in my face appeared to mollify him, for after a few more seconds Smike shook his head a little and said, "It's late. Let's go to bed."

Even then I couldn't let myself relax or allow him to see that I had been mentally holding my breath, wondering what on earth I would do if he called my bluff and phoned Courtney to see what I really had been up to that evening. I just replied, "Sounds good. I'm really tired."

And I followed him into the bedroom, then headed into the bathroom for my normal nighttime routine. I hadn't been lying about being tired -- part of me wanted to just fall into bed without washing my face or brushing my teeth, but I knew I'd hate myself in the morning if I did that. So I went about my tasks, then turned out the bathroom light and crawled into bed next to Smike. Then came the usual tense moment where I worried as to whether he would reach out to me in the darkness, whether I'd have to shut my eyes once again and let him touch me. That night, however, he didn't. I felt him roll over on his side, away from me, and I offered up a silent prayer to whatever powers might be for allowing me that small respite. Illogical as it seemed, having Smike make love to me felt more wrong than ever, as if somehow I really were cheating...on Father Gordon.

_I'm going to need so much therapy when this is all over_, I thought, and closed my eyes. Then blessed sleep came, and for a while I didn't have to worry about anything at all.


	8. Revelations

Sorry about the delay in posting this, everyone -- between vacation and getting caught up on everything after I got back, it's been a slow ramp back up to my previous output. But I think I'm back on track now. Thanks for your patience -- and thank you for all the reviews. Your reward is lots of Gorendil in this chapter! ;-)

* * *

Eight: Revelations

As it turned out, Smike left the house before I even got out of the shower, so I was able to get the silver Middle Earth gown out of my studio completely undetected. Part of me just wanted to ditch school altogether and go straight to All Saints to meet with Father Gordon. The plan, however, had been for me to go to his office at the church after one o'clock, so I forced myself to endure the traffic into downtown Los Angeles and then daydreamed through my two morning classes before climbing back into my car and heading over to Pasadena. At least at that hour the drive went quickly, and I had time to grab a sandwich and some iced tea before the arranged meeting time.

All Saints is a gorgeous gothic-style church on the outskirts of Old Pasadena. Somewhat incongruously, it backs up to an open plaza that boasts a California Pizza Kitchen and a steakhouse, not to mention an elegant Spanish-looking hotel that fronts out on Los Robles. Street parking was nightmare, though, so I had to use the underground structure that serviced the hotel and the restaurants. I shoved the ticket in my pocket and wondered whether the church validated.

Even though I had carefully swathed the gown I carried in a leftover plastic bag from the dry cleaner's, it still elicited a few curious looks from the people who rode up in the elevator with me from the parking garage. They looked to be mostly business types out for a late lunch, so I suppose I did appear a little out of place.

Once I got out of the elevator I walked across the plaza in the direction of the church, and then got a little confused when I tried to find the entrance, which actually faces out on Euclid Street. A pleasant-faced older woman who had just emerged through the massive double doors noticed my bewilderment and pointed me to a smaller building set off from the church proper when I told her I was looking for Father Gordon's office. It, too, had been built out of dark stone but had plainer diamond-paned windows instead of the gorgeous stained glass that decorated the church itself.

I didn't see anyone else around, so I pushed open the door and found myself in a hallway that didn't bear much resemblance to the pseudo-medieval exterior -- the dingy linoleum and yellowish walls reminded me of the grade school in Pasadena I had attended before my family moved to San Marino. Bulletin boards covered with all sorts of flyers and hand-written index cards added a little visual interest to the institutional interior.

Walking hesitantly, and reading the name plaques on the doors at the same time, I made my way down the corridor. Father Gordon's office was at the end of the hall; the door stood open, and I heard his voice even before I peered in.

"...I believe Zelda's handling that one as well. Yes, but don't dare tell _her_ she's overextended herself!" I heard him laugh, and something in my heart turned over. For a second I hated whoever he was speaking with. I wanted him to laugh that way at something I had said.

At that moment Father Gordon's gaze settled on me as I peeked through the doorway. He smiled, then pointed at the chair that faced his desk. Feeling more than a little awkward, I took the seat he had indicated and settled into it, draping the plastic-swathed gown across my lap.

"No, that's fine," he continued. "I think that should work out very well. But I've got someone in to see me, so -- right, oh, no problem. I'll give you a call by Thursday at the latest to check back. Take care."

And he placed the phone back in its receiver, then folded his hands on the desktop and gave me another encouraging smile. "I see you found us all right."

"Oh, sure," I said. Then I decided it would be completely crass to mention the parking situation, especially considering this was a church and all. It wasn't as if I couldn't afford whatever graft the garage operators were going to end up squeezing out of me by the time I was done.

His gaze shifted to the gown I held in my lap. "Is that it?"

Glad I could focus on something besides his face, I looked down and fussed with the plastic dry-cleaner's bag that covered the gown. I pulled it aside, then turned the gown inside out so he could see the seams. "Look," I said. "For one thing, it's completely hand-stitched. Now, I know there are some hardcore historical re-enactors out there who do hand-sew their garments, but it's still pretty unusual. Also, you can see the silver thread running through the fabric. Nowadays manufacturers use Mylar or other synthetics to make metallic threads, but even though this looks light, you can feel how heavy it is. I'm guessing it's real silver -- or something else."

Looking somewhat dubious, Father Gordon reached out to feel one trailing sleeve. His expression shifted from doubtful to amazed as he felt the weight of the fabric. "You seem to be something of an expert," he commented.

"I'm getting my degree in costume design for film and television," I replied. "Part of what we do is study fabrics -- what's period-appropriate, how things drape, how well they dye or age, what they look like under studio lights. And I'd never seen fabric like this before, until -- " I hesitated, still feeling foolish for saying it out loud.

"Until Middle Earth," he finished for me. The gray eyes lifted from the gown and met mine. For a second he frowned slightly. Then he shook his head, as if to dispel some foolish thought. "I've already talked to Raoul Ortiz with the Pasadena PD. He said he'd be happy to pass it on to someone he knows at the local FBI bureau in Los Angeles, someone who does a lot of fiber analysis."

"Great," I said, wishing I sounded a little more enthusiastic. Maybe I was just worried that after all this the fabric tests would come back showing nothing unusual, and I'd end up looking like a complete lunatic. But I carefully pulled the plastic back down around the gown, then asked, "Do you have someplace I can hang this up for now?"

Father Gordon pointed at a dark wood coat rack that stood in the far corner. "You can put it there for now. I'm probably going over to see Detective Ortiz later this afternoon." Again that little frown deepened the crease between his eyebrows. "Forgive me -- you haven't come to services here before, have you? Last night it was a little dark in the restaurant for me to get a good look at you, but somehow it seems as if I'd seen you somewhere before."

Cautious joy rose up in me then. Maybe he hadn't completely forgotten me after all. Trying to sound cool and calm, I replied, "No, I've never been to church here. My parents aren't very -- well, church has never been a big thing with my family. Sorry."

"No need to apologize -- we're not much into proselytizing around here. So don't worry that I'm going to hit you with the hard sell." He sounded amused, but his expression was still a little puzzled.

God, what to do? Did I dare tell him the truth? I mean, it was a big step from a vague feeling of recognition to learning that the young woman he faced had been his lover in another world, another dimension. The logical part of my brain told me that it was far too soon for that sort of revelation. As we worked together, maybe I could slowly let on that my relationship with Gorendil had been more far more than just friendship. Maybe at some point I could let this William Gordon know that he was physically identical to my lost Lord of the Nazgûl.

Part of me, though, was just tired, achingly weary of the lies that made up my life with Smike, the constant subterfuges, the pretending to my family and friends that everything was perfect and that I was so looking forward to becoming Mrs. Michael Westerfield. The knowledge that the Morrisons believed me and had brought in Father Gordon to assist me did help somewhat. But I didn't want to have to go on lying day after day to this man who wore my lover's face. I wanted him to know the truth.

I took a deep breath, then looked Father Gordon in his too-familiar eyes. "You remember how I talked about the man named Gorendil, the Lord of the Nazgûl?"

He nodded. "Yes."

The only way to say it was quickly. Besides, although I wasn't sure Episcopalian priests heard confession the way Catholics did, I guessed Father Gordon had done his fair share of listening to people pour out their secrets. "Well, our relationship became close. Very close, if you know what I mean."

The cool gray gaze didn't flicker. "I see."

"That's not everything, though," I went on, knowing I had to continue or I'd never have to guts to say this again. "He was you."

That comment got more of a reaction. He straightened, then gave me an unbelieving stare. "Excuse me?"

"Well, not you exactly. He looked just like you, moved just like you, sounded just like you." I paused, adding, "Well, maybe he didn't sound exactly like you. Where _are_ you from, anyway? Boston?"

"Brookline, actually." The frown was back, as well as a definite look of disbelief. "So you're saying that the Lord of the Nazgûl was my physical double?"

"Yes," I replied, then, desperately, "Oh, don't you think I know how crazy that sounds? I thought he -- you -- he -- oh, _shit_!" For a second I wondered whether God was going to smite me for uttering profanity on church grounds, but nothing happened except that Father Gordon looked increasingly edgy. "I thought he was dead. He died. I saw him die. Sauron killed him and made me watch. Then he -- he -- " To my horror, the flow of half-incoherent words turned into a flood of tears as I broke off, the agony of that moment hitting me all over again, as if it had happened just yesterday instead of months ago.

My eyes were too filled with tears for me to really see what happened next, but somehow a tissue was placed gently in my hand, even as I felt Father Gordon help me back down into my chair. I suppose it would have been too much to ask for him to take me in his arms and comfort me, but at least he hadn't just stood by idly while I wept. I suppose a member of the clergy is used to dealing with people having emotional crises.

"Sarah."

The northeast accent barely touched those syllables. He really did sound like Gorendil at that moment, and it was more than I could bear. I continued to cry noisily, hardly noticing as Father Gordon pushed another tissue into my hand when the first one dissolved into a soggy mess.

He said my name again, and finally I looked up to see him watching me with grave, concerned eyes. "I know you've suffered a tremendous loss. At times like these, people often try to reach out to something they think is familiar, to find some sort of pattern in the chaos that their lives have become. Perhaps you think I resemble this man in some way -- "

"I don't think it, I know it!" I burst out. "Everything -- your eyes, your nose, your mouth, the shape of your hands. He had a scar on his cheek that you don't have, but otherwise you could be the same man." How I wished then that Gorendil had had some sort of birthmark or other distinguishing physical characteristic which could prove to Father Gordon that they really were the same person. But although Gorendil's body had been criss-crossed with scars from battles long since fought, I guessed that his modern counterpart would have no such marks. Still, I had to try -- the worst of his scars had been the one that slashed across his chest. "He had a huge scar here," I said, and pointed at the center of my breastbone.

Father Gordon suddenly went very still. "Where?"

"Down the center, pretty much, but a little more off to the left," I replied. It must have been a horrible blow; God knows how Gorendil had survived it.

For a second Father Gordon said nothing. One hand brushed again the placket of the dark shirt he wore; for the first time I realized he had on a plain button-up black shirt like the one I had seen in my dream of Gorendil instead of the clerical collar and jacket he'd worn to our meeting the night before. "Impossible," he murmured.

"What?"

His forefinger paused right at the top button, and for one crazy second I thought he was going to open up his shirt to show me. Instead he went on, "When I was fourteen, I was riding in the front seat of my cousin's car when another car ran a light and plowed right into us. They had to crack my chest open to get my heart started again." His eyes met mine, and I could see the confusion and worry there. "It left a very impressive scar."

Even though I had gotten the impression he was heading someplace like that, still that piece of information left me reeling. Again a feeling of inevitability took over. Had this all been foreordained somehow? Were the threads of the pattern somehow being pulled tighter, the way someone weaving cloth would employ a shuttle to make sure the warp and weft melded into one? And if that were true, who was controlling the loom?

I blinked, then said, my mouth dry, "That's a heck of a coincidence, don't you think?"

"I'd say so." Frowning again, he took his seat behind his desk once more, as if he thought it prudent to put a little distance between the two of us. "I know there are more things in heaven and earth and all that, but I've never put much credence in the whole concept of past lives."

"How could it be a past life, when I'm still living it?" I asked. "As I said, I saw him -- you -- Gorendil die. But although I thought I had died as well when I went into Mount Doom, obviously that's not what happened. I came back here." Casting a dubious look around the cramped office with its secondhand furniture and crowded bookshelves, I added, "I'm not sure what heaven is supposed to look like, but I'm pretty sure it's not this."

He managed a laugh at that comment, although it sounded a little forced. "Scholars have been arguing that particular point of doctrine for centuries. One man's heaven, and so on." Looking away from me, he picked up a piece of paper on his desk that had gotten knocked off its particular stack and put it back in its place.

I could tell he was uneasy being around me, and as much as his discomfort made my heart ache, I couldn't exactly blame him. Dealing with people who claimed to have been your lover in a past life -- or alternate life, if you wanted to look at it that way -- probably hadn't been covered in his seminary training, and I was pretty sure it was one particular social situation Emily Post had never discussed, either. It probably would have been much easier for him to tell himself that I was just projecting my feelings on him or experiencing transference (I dimly recalled such a concept being discussed in my psychology class) if not for the fact the both he and his supposed double had scars in the exact same place.

Since I had decided that honesty was the best policy here, I knew I couldn't start lying to him at this point. "Look, I know this must be very weird for you," I said. "It's not like I'm trying to get that relationship back or anything. I just wanted to let you know the truth, and if my reactions sometimes seem a little strange, that might have something to do with it."

Well, that was mostly true. I'd be the world's biggest liar if I tried to tell myself I didn't still want him, despite our current circumstances. My feelings of relief had been enormous once I learned he wasn't Catholic after all -- and they increased slightly now, as my gaze fell to his hands as they rested on the desktop and I realized that the ring finger of his left hand was bare. Not that that necessarily meant anything. Lots of men didn't wear wedding rings. But somehow I doubted that ministers fell into that category very often.

Father Gordon might have been a stranger to me still, but Gorendil hadn't been, and I'd come to be able to read the Lord of the Nazgûl fairly well. Of course there were some differences in accent and mannerism -- William Gordon had grown up in this world and had been shaped by it -- but I could tell by the set of his shoulders and the slight change in the tilt of his head that my words had settled him somewhat. He appeared to have reassured himself that at least I wouldn't be flinging myself over the desk and declaring my undying love any time in the near future. He said quietly, "I think you're handling a difficult situation very well."

Good thing he didn't know how much I really did want to throw myself at him, force him to remember me by pressing my mouth against his and hoping that motor memory might kick in even if he didn't consciously recall who I was or what our relationship had been.

The silence grew even more awkward. I said quickly, "Well, I should probably be going. My wedding planner has another gown designer she wants me to meet with this afternoon." That wasn't even a lie; I did have an appointment, but it wasn't until four o'clock. My watch mocked me -- had barely twenty minutes passed since I first stepped foot in Father Gordon's office? It felt as if hours had gone by.

He said, his voice sounding too flat, "I'd forgotten about your wedding."

"I wish I could."

"Then why not stop it?"

I gave a bitter laugh. "Did you listen to anything I said last night? Do you think I can just go back to Sauron -- and it _is_ Sauron, whatever you might think, and whoever he might look like -- and say, 'Oh, sorry, Dark Lord dude, but I've decided that marrying you really isn't going to work for me'? Do you think I have a _choice_, for Chrissake?"

A muscle in his cheek twitched, but otherwise Father Gordon gave me an imperturbable stare. "We all have choices, even if they may seem impossible at first."

"Save it for the parishioners, Father," I snapped, unable to keep the scorn out of my voice. "My choice, then, if you want to call it that, is to keep Sauron occupied with me so he doesn't hurt anyone else. My choice is to take him as he is now, in the body of my friend, because as horrible as that may be it's still infinitely better than what he threatened me with!"

"And what is that?" he asked, his tone far gentler than mine had been.

I looked away. How could I tell him of Sauron's obscene threat? Then again, maybe I could shock Father Gordon into understanding exactly what kind of monster we were dealing with here. "He told me," I said, enunciating clearly so there could be no mistake, "that if I didn't do as he said he would leave Mike's body and take on someone else's...someone like my father." I waited a few seconds for the meaning to sink in, for the familiar gray eyes to take on a look of dawning horror. "Yes, my father. And that he'd take great pleasure in being intimate with me in that form. So you can see why I'm reluctant to challenge him openly. At least this way he thinks he's got me beaten down."

Father Gordon didn't flinch from meeting my gaze. In that he was Gorendil still -- strong, unafraid to face whatever the world might throw at him. "But he hasn't, has he?"

_Not now that I have you again_, I thought, but of course I didn't dare say those words aloud. "Never," I said fiercely. "I'm going to send him back to whatever hell he came from if it's the last thing I do."

He stood then, and gave me another one of those heartbreaking smiles. "We'll send him back, Sarah. You will be free of this burden, I swear."

His words reminded me that I was no longer alone in this. Whatever awkwardness might lie between us, he would not allow it to prevent him from helping me to banish Sauron from this world forever.

My voice sounding a little thick, I said, "Thank you, Father Gordon."

The gray eyes caught mine, and held. I felt a shiver go through me as I thought of all the times Gorendil had regarded me so, all the times I felt as if he could see into my very soul. Would this man and I ever come to that place as well, or would we stay forever strangers, just two people whose only connection was a common goal?

Then he smiled again, and stood. He reached across the desk, offering me his hand, and I took it, feeling the strength of his touch, which was Gorendil's all over again. Father Gordon's flesh, however, was warm, human as mine. I wished I could let him hold my hand forever, but I knew that if I allowed more than a few seconds to pass he would no doubt become uneasy again. So I reluctantly let go, forcing a smile to my lips, and he nodded, his eyes never leaving my face.

"Call me Will," he said.


	9. Suspicion

Sorry it took me so long to update -- I had a bit of the dreaded WB, and I had a few other things on my plate I needed to get sorted out. Thank you for your patience!

* * *

Nine: Suspicion

I spent the hours between my meeting with Father Gordon -- _Will_ -- and my appointment with the dress designer haunting the Paseo Colorado shopping center, eventually doing some damage to the platinum Visa card Mike's father had given me. Now, ordinarily I tend to be careful with money; my parents are certainly comfortable, but they expected me to have a part-time job when I was in high school, and the only reason I didn't work during the school year while attending FIDM was that I banked a lot over the summer doing costume design and construction for local theater companies. But I was sufficiently agitated after meeting with Will that some retail therapy seemed in order. Besides, the couple of hundred dollars I dropped on some shoes, a sweater, and a to-die-for pair of rose quartz chandelier earrings was probably lunch money to Mr. Westerfield -- if even that. And if I needed to rationalize my shopping any further, Mr. Westerfield had actually asked me just a few days earlier whether there was a problem with the card, as I didn't seem to be using it much. I'd said that no, there wasn't anything wrong with it, but he'd still looked faintly disapproving, as if he couldn't quite figure out why I hadn't gone into a frenzy of consumerism once I realized he'd given me _carte blanche_.

After I had gotten the shopping bug out of my system I sat on the upper level near the restaurants and people-watched, all the while trying to convince myself that I'd done the right thing by telling Will the truth about my relationship with Gorendil. Almost from the second I left his office I started having terrible misgivings. He seemed to have handled the news fairly well, but that didn't necessarily mean much. After all, wouldn't a clergyman be pretty good at presenting a calm face no matter what kind of psychological crap his parishioners threw at him?

I didn't know. I had no background in these sorts of things, and although several of my friends were fairly regular churchgoers, I'd never talked to them about religion, let alone what their personal interactions with their ministers or priests might be. Once again I found myself stymied by my own lack of experience.

It was a cool, pearly gray sort of day. No rain, but a thin layer of clouds blocked out the sun, and it felt as if winter was on the way. I shivered a little and wrapped my hands around the macchiato I'd ordered, glad of its warmth. Feeling a little depressed, I noticed that the mall had already been decked out with holiday trimmings. They'd probably been in place since Halloween, but for the first time I realized that Christmas was coming, and I hadn't thought about it at all...not to mention whatever familial nightmare Thanksgiving might involve. The holiday tended to move around my extended family so that no one got stuck with the mess year after year, but now that I was engaged to Mike I worried that Mr. Westerfield might want to hold some kind of huge gathering for the blended families at his place.

Well, I'd just have to discuss it with Smike -- and hope that Mike's memories would explain things enough that I wouldn't have to go into too much detail about the importance of the holidays and why we couldn't possibly ignore them. Those thoughts led me to realize that I'd have to buy the bastard some sort of Christmas present if I hadn't banished him to hell by then.

With that cheery notion in my head, I looked down at my watch and saw that it was almost a quarter to four. Close enough. By the time I'd retrieved my car and driven the half-mile to Old Pasadena proper where the gown designer's shop was located, then parked in yet another structure, it should be right around four o'clock. Both my mother and Lisa were going to meet me there for moral support.

I wondered if there had ever been another bride who was quite so unenthusiastic about choosing a wedding dress...

My mood wasn't improved any when I walked into the shop and discovered not just my mother and Lisa waiting there for me, but Smike as well.

"What the hell are you doing here?" I blurted.

Both Lisa and my mother looked shocked. Smike gave me a small, evil smile.

Trying to cover up my gaffe, I added, "I mean, isn't it bad luck for the groom to see the bride's gown before the wedding?"

"That's just the day of the wedding, Sarah," my mother said gently. "I think it's wonderful that Mike's taken an interest."

Lisa grinned. "You should count yourself lucky. Christy Hoffman's fiancé told her he didn't want to see or hear _anythin_g about their wedding before it happened -- he just wanted to know what time to show up at the church."

"If it's a problem -- " Smike began, in his best eager-puppy Mike accents.

"No problem," I said, cool as a cucumber. I wasn't about to let him think he'd gotten the better of me. As Scarlett O'Hara might have said, butter wouldn't melt in my mouth. I dug up a smile and put it on. "I just didn't think you'd be interested in this girly stuff."

"You'd be surprised," he replied.

_Surprised?_ I thought. _Not really. Obviously you thought this would be another fun and exciting way to torture me. I'm just waiting for the comments about how one gown makes my ass look big or another one flattens my boobs._

My mother still looked a little worried. "Mike called the house trying to find you. You weren't answering your cell, and I said we were going to meet you here -- "

"I wanted to take you out to dinner," Smike said, still with that glint in his eye. "You really should be more careful with your cell phone, Sarah."

Of course I had turned it off before I went in to meet with Will. I wasn't about to tell Smike that, obviously, and I was also starting to resent the fact that he appeared to look on my phone as a sort of electronic leash. If I'd been smart I would have switched the stupid thing back on once I got to Paseo Colorado, but I'd been too busy angsting over the whole Sauron situation to remember to do anything so prosaic.

"Turned it off for class," I said blithely. "Sometimes I just forget it's shut off. Don't worry -- if there had been an emergency where I really I needed it, of course I would have turned it back on."

The subtext being, of course, that his needing to reach me wasn't all that important.

Smike's face got an odd, pinched look, as if he wanted to scowl but realized that he couldn't give full rein to his irritation in front of my mother and Lisa. Instead, he settled for mumbling, "Well, try to remember it in the future," as I handed him a fake-contrite glance. From the brief tightening of his mouth, I guessed he knew I wasn't sorry at all.

At that opportune moment Lois, the owner of the shop, glided in and introduced herself in accents that told me she was another East Coast transplant like William Gordon. No hair in nature had ever been that shade of red, and I found it a little odd that a wedding-gown designer would wear head to toe black, but working in the fashion business one gets used to certain eccentricities. Besides, Lois D'Onofrio had been recommended as _the_ designer to go to in Pasadena. I suppose I could have trekked across town to Beverly Hills or something if I wanted to be completely pretentious, but there's actually a ton of money in Pasadena and San Marino, along with the businesses that cater to such an exalted clientele. If there's such a thing as "old money" in Southern California, Pasadena is where you'll find it.

Throughout the estrogen-fest that followed Smike was strangely quiet. Once or twice I thought I saw a smirk cross his face when I put on something particularly unflattering -- why do some designers feel the need to pile more and more frou-frou on their gowns so that the bride ends up looking like a massacre in a marshmallow factory? -- but otherwise he seemed content to watch as Lisa and my mother and I argued the points of one gown over another. I tend to go for simple stuff, but I knew no bias-cut silk satin slip gown was going to work in a church as impressive as St. Edmund's. On the other hand, I refused to wear a "meringue," as the women in _Four Weddings and a Funeral_ had so brilliantly put it. Also, strapless gowns may be the "in" thing right now, but if you have any kind of a chest you're probably going to spend the whole reception worrying about whether the girls are going to make a surprise appearance.

In the end I decided on a very elegant slightly trained gown of white silk dupioni with subtle silvery embroidery that trailed around the crossover bodice and down the skirt. Tiaras were weighed pro and con, and in the end I decided to go with it because, after all, how many times in her life does a girl have a legitimate reason to wear a tiara? Besides, it would help to anchor the veil.

I was surprised to find that by the time we were finished and I handed Lois' assistant my platinum card, it was almost six o'clock. It seemed strange to charge that much money and not have anything to show for it -- well, except the tiara, which got to go home with me in a little padded case -- but of course the gown needed some minor alterations. It would be ready in a few weeks, and then I'd get to spend the next six months obsessing over everything I ate so that it would still fit on the Big Day.

Assuming there was a wedding at all, of course. I couldn't let the whole fairy-tale princess gown euphoria take over -- I had to make sure that Sauron was shot straight back to hell (or its Middle Earth equivalent) long before I took a walk down the aisle.

I'd sort of hoped that Lisa and I might have been able to have a girls' night out after the dress selection was over with, but of course Smike's presence put the kibosh on that idea. Instead I had to smile and act as if I were happy when he offered to take me to Twin Palms for dinner, and even my weak protest that we'd have to pay for umpteen hours of parking two cars got shot down. Apparently he'd hitched a ride with my mother and Lisa.

So I had to hug my mom (who still looked a little moist around the edges after getting misty when she saw me in my wedding gown) and say good-bye to Lisa while pretending to be excited about having a "romantic" dinner with Smike at Twin Palms. Hey, it's a nice restaurant and all that. But that didn't make who I would be forced to share it with any better.

The shop was only a few blocks away from the restaurant, which was why we ended up leaving my car where it was parked and walking the short distance. By then it was full dark outside, but people crowded the streets as they headed out to early dinners or tried to get in some shopping on their way home from work. Decorative lights glittered from the old-fashioned street lamps, the air was brisk but not yet cold, and people seemed energized by the onset of the holiday season. By the time Christmas finally arrived most people would be tired and broke, but for now good humor seemed to be the rule.

Too bad the person I walked next to wasn't someone I actually wanted to be with. I could imagine strolling down this street with Will at my side, maybe popping into Barnes & Noble or stopping for something warm to drink at Starbuck's. But no, I had to be wandering in the Southern California version of a winter wonderland with a displaced Dark Lord at my side.

At least the crowds saved me from having to converse with him; I pretended to be concentrating on navigating my way along Colorado Boulevard until we turned down DeLacey Street and then went on into the restaurant itself. It was still sort of early for dinner, especially for the upscale crowd the place usually attracted, so we didn't have to wait long. Sooner than I would have liked, we had been seated at a table out on the patio -- it might have been a cool November night, but that sort of thing never stopped a Californian from eating _al fresco_. Enormous white sail-like canopies protected dinners from the evening air, and several of the gas heaters had already been lit.

Smike seemed unusually cool, ordering a bottle of pinot noir from the menu as if he did that sort of thing every day. It wasn't until after we'd placed our food orders, and the waiter had uncorked the wine and left us to our own devices, that he pounced.

"Just where were you?" he demanded. "You seem to be spending a good deal of time off someplace on your own these days."

I took a sip of wine and then set my glass back down on the table before bothering to reply. "I had class, and then I went shopping to kill some time before I went to the dress shop. You want to see the receipts? We'd have to walk all the way back over to the parking garage, but -- "

"I suppose you think you're very clever, don't you?" The dark eyes seemed to bore into mine. "Always a plausible excuse for everything."

"I thought you already told me that I wasn't very clever at all," I said sweetly. In these confrontations I'd long since learned it was best to stomp on my temper and hold its head under water; otherwise, I was sure to say something I'd regret later.

He waved a hand. "You do have a certain low animal cunning."

"Why, Mike, I think that's the nicest thing you've ever said to me."

At that point the waiter arrived with our salads, and I could see Smike fume at the interruption. But even he obviously realized that making a scene in a public place -- evidence from watching reruns of _Dynasty_ on TVLand to the contrary -- was probably not a very good idea.

After the waiter disappeared once again, Smike said, "Amuse yourself all you like. But understand that I am watching you."

"Old news, Sauron dear," I replied, in tones as well-chilled as the salad fork the waiter had just handed me. Inwardly, though, I was starting to freak out a little. _Watching you?_ What the hell did that mean? Did he have some way of spying on me that I didn't know about? Or had he thought it was about time to have me followed by a private detective? I hadn't noticed anyone unusual hanging around, but that didn't mean much, since I hadn't been paying attention to a whole lot beyond my own problems. Trying to keep my voice steady, I continued, "I think you made that abundantly clear after I stayed too late at that school lecture earlier this week."

"Well, I thought I had." He speared a forkful of Caesar salad and lifted it to his mouth, then added, "The women in this world are far too free with themselves, as far as I can tell."

_You would think that, wouldn't you, Mr. Dark Ages Evil Overlord?_ I thought viciously, but I knew better than to reply. I got the feeling that he was trying to bait me, to see if he could get me upset enough that I would blurt something out in an unguarded moment. Instead I helped myself to some of my own salad -- I'd thought longingly of the Caesar, then recalled the close fit of the wedding gown and instead ordered vinaigrette on the side -- before finally replying, "Well, I guess I should be glad that the women's rights movement got its start before you showed up."

That just made him give me a thin smile before he went back to his own salad. Not for the first time I wondered why he cared what I did or who I saw. Oh, naturally, I was his connection to this world, and I supposed that having me around could occasionally be useful, but he certainly wasn't in love with me. So why the prying, like some jealous boyfriend who thinks his girlfriend is sleeping around on him?

Of course, to be completely honest, I would have been more than happy to cheat on Smike with William Gordon, should the occasion arise...

The hostess seated a couple a few tables away from us; the woman was the sort of stunning blonde that Southern California seemed to produce in profusion. So what if she'd probably been paid a visit by the silicone fairy? She was still the type who could turn heads and stop traffic (not that that was such a big deal in Los Angeles; traffic around here was stopped most of the time).

But Smike's gaze didn't even flicker. The refugee from the Playboy Mansion might as well have been invisible for all he noticed her.

"Why me?" I asked, feeling more than a little desperate. "With Mike's dad's money, you could probably get pretty much anyone you wanted." I hated saying it, but it was the truth. In this world, large amounts of cash boosted just about anyone's charisma. And Mike wasn't bad-looking, either. He was also supernaturally intelligent, although that attribute probably wouldn't attract Miss September the way his shiny new BMW might.

For a few seconds he was silent. Then he set his fork down into his salad bowl and said, "Mike wanted you."

"That's it?" I shot back. "What, you're with me so that in some twisted way you can make up to Mike for taking over his body?"

Finally he looked away from me, glancing over at the couple two tables away. It was fairly obvious he wasn't checking out the swimsuit model, though -- it appeared to me that he wanted to make sure they were occupied with their own conversation before he replied.

"More than that." He opened his mouth as if to go on, but the waiter reappeared with our entrees, and again conversation was stifled until he departed once more.

The food smelled wonderful, but I didn't touch mine. I waited, glaring at Smike as he sawed away at his rack of lamb.

"Do you find it so unbelievable that I might have come to care for you?" he asked at last.

I didn't bother to stifle my laugh. "Actually, yeah." Love was a concept completely alien to Sauron as far as I could tell, unless of course you wanted to count his own massive self-regard.

To my surprise, Smike didn't look terribly upset. "I share this mind with him, know what he knows, feel what he feels. My will -- my spirit, if you like -- dominates him, but I've found that his personality seems to have some effect on mine."

Turning to my neglected plate, I cut a few bites of chicken, then commented, "Yes, a few times you've surprised me by not being as big an asshole as usual."

"See? I must be slipping."

Despite myself, I grinned at his response. It was just the sort of thing Mike might have said -- but how could I know whether he'd responded that way because part of Mike's personality truly was overlaying Sauron's, or whether he was just pretending in order to throw me off-guard?

Trying to figure that out made my head start to hurt. I asked, "So you're saying that you're forcing me to marry you because that's what Mike wanted?"

"'Force' is such an ugly word, don't you think?"

"Ugly or not, it's the truth." I downed a reckless gulp of wine, then said, "That's what you did to me back at Mount Doom, what you've continued to do to me ever since -- "

A smirk twisted his mouth. "I didn't notice you fighting back the night of our engagement party."

"Because I was completely shit-faced!"

"Everything to your liking?"

Goddamn waiters. I swear, they must have radar. Either they show up to ask you how your food is at the precise moment when your mouth is full and you can't answer, or they sidle over to the table just when you're in the middle of a particularly nasty exchange.

"Fine," Smike and I said simultaneously, not bothering to look up at him.

At least he took the hint and beat a hasty retreat. I continued to glare at Smike, but forced myself to take a few deep breaths before going on, in a much calmer tone, "You made it very clear to me what the consequences would be if I tried to fight you. Besides, I don't want to hurt Mike."

At that comment a light of triumph gleamed in his eyes, and I knew I'd made a big mistake. Maybe he had guessed I wouldn't do anything that might injure Mike's physical form, but now he had concrete proof. So much for being careful about what I said.

Well, I'd blown it, but I was damned if I was going to let the argument end there. "Anyway," I said, "if you want to sugar-coat it, go right ahead, but you're not fooling me."

Again one of those silences, where he watched me with those opaque dark eyes of his. Then he smiled in that hateful way of his. "Perhaps not," he replied, "but I've certainly fooled everyone else."

And to that, unfortunately, I had no ready reply.

* * *

The next day I stopped at the Best Buy in Pasadena on the way home from school and bought myself one of those Virgin Mobile phones, the type where you can just pay for your minutes as you go. Of course I already had a cell phone, but the exchange with Smike the evening before had spooked me enough that I thought it better to have a secondary phone, one that Will could use to contact me and which I'd keep locked in my glove compartment. I had no concrete evidence that Smike had been able to hack into my voicemail, but I didn't dare take the chance. 

Sitting in my car in the parking lot, listening to the first patter of an early-season rainstorm on the roof, I went through the steps required to activate the phone, then called information and asked for the number to All Saints. I got an operator for the church, told her I was trying to reach Father William Gordon, and waited, heart pounding, for the connection to his extension.

Only to get his answering machine. Just a standard greeting, saying that I'd reached his office but he was out, and, if it was an emergency, to call such and such a number. But the mere sound of his voice made the breath catch in my throat. God, I was such an idiot.

"Hi, Will, this is Sarah Monaghan," I said, forcing myself to sound normal. "It's nothing urgent, but I just wanted to leave you another phone number where you can reach me. Don't call the cell number I gave you before -- I'm not sure how secure that one is." Great...that made me sound like someone overacting in a cheesy spy drama. Clearing my throat, I went on, "Just leave me a voicemail when you have a chance. The phone is new, and I want to make sure everything's working OK. Talk to you later."

Then I hung up and wondered if Will was going to think I sounded completely paranoid. But, as the saying goes, just because you're paranoid doesn't mean that everyone's not out to get you.

I laughed a little at that thought, then stopped abruptly. Maybe I was really losing my mind. After all, I was sitting here in the parking lot at Best Buy, laughing at nothing. Not exactly what most people would classify as normal behavior. Then again, not much in my life had been normal lately.

With a sigh, I put the phone in the glove compartment, but I decided not to lock it just in case Will did call me back. I could secure it once I got a little closer to home. Logic told me that very probably he wouldn't return the call for a while; I had no real idea what his daily routine was like, but I got the feeling he had a lot of claims on his time. And of course it was far too soon to expect any sort of results regarding the analysis of my Middle Earth gown. The unknown Detective Ortiz probably had to call in a few favors for that one, and no doubt crime-scene analysis and blood samples would take precedence over something as frivolous as a dress that might be more than it seemed.

I pulled out of the parking lot and pointed my car down Rosemead, intending to take the overland route home. Every time I stopped at a light my gaze strayed to the glove compartment, but of course my new phone stayed stubbornly silent.

_Call_, I thought, _just call and let me know you cared enough to do that much_...

But the phone never rang, and I fought back tears as I locked the glove compartment and dragged my bookbag out of the car. Mike's BMW was in the driveway, meaning I wouldn't have any time to collect my thoughts before I had to face him again.

Despite the fact that I knew Smike must be waiting for me inside, at that moment I felt completely, utterly alone...


	10. Scheming

I was afraid ff.n wasn't going to let me upload this because it was being buggy, but it seems to be all better now. Thanks for the reviews, everyone!

* * *

Ten: Scheming

Will had called. Quite a while after I got home the evening before -- the time stamp on the voicemail said it was after nine o'clock. But I hadn't been as completely abandoned as I thought.

He sounded rushed and a little rough around the edges, as if he were irritated by something. Not me, as far as I could tell; he asked if I was all right, and said that my comment about the phone had worried him a little. Then he concluded by saying he'd be back in the office the next morning by nine o'clock (obviously clergymen didn't follow a standard nine-to-five, Monday-Friday routine), and to give him a call when I had a chance.

I wanted to kiss the little phone. Although it was a Saturday morning, I'd gone back downtown, telling Smike I had a few things I needed to get for my class project. Normally of course I would have just run over to the shops in the Fashion District after class, but these days I was looking for any excuse to get out of the house. Smike asked a few pointed questions, but after I rambled on about hook-and-eye tape, re-embroidered lace, and silk ribbon for a few minutes his eyes glazed over, and I was able to escape without any more interrogation. All during my drive downtown I kept looking through the rearview mirror, wondering whether Smike really had hired someone to tail me, but if anyone was following me they had to be pretty damn inconspicuous, as I didn't notice anything out of the ordinary.

Once I arrived at my destination I pulled into the rooftop parking lot I used whenever I went into this section of downtown. A quick glance at my watch told me it was almost ten, so it should be safe to call Will. I'd programmed the number to All Saints in my phone the day before, so I pulled it up from my contacts list, got the operator again, and then was transferred to Will's extension.

This time he answered. "Hello?"

I still felt a little weird about calling him Will, so I took the easy way out and didn't use any form of direct address. "Hi -- it's Sarah."

"Sarah. How are you? You had me a little worried."

"Sorry." I hesitated, then said, "I'm probably just being paranoid. But Smike said something the other day that got my spider sense tingling, so I thought it was better to be safe. I'm all right, though."

"You're sure." He certainly didn't sound all that convinced.

"Oh, yeah." The half-hearted sunlight was starting to warm up the car, so I paused and opened my window partway after checking that the parking attendant was at the other side of the lot and occupied with the latest vehicle to roll in. "What about you? Did I catch you at a bad time?"

My answer was a not-very-amused chuckle. "You could call it that. This whole IRS thing really has the place in an uproar."

Huh? "Um...IRS?" I asked.

"I take it you don't read the paper or watch the news."

Feeling like a complete idiot, I replied, "Uh -- not lately." Truth be told, I hadn't paid much attention to what was going on in the world the past few weeks. When I lived at home I usually could catch pieces of the news, since my mother liked to watch the local broadcasts in the late afternoon, and there were always copies of the _L.A. Times_ and _Wall Street Journal_ lying around. Mike apparently didn't subscribe to any newspapers -- although scientific journals piled up around the place at an alarming rate -- and I tended to tune out whatever he had on the TV.

"Well, I suppose you've been preoccupied," Will said, appearing to excuse my ignorance. "To be brief, the IRS is threatening to pull All Saints' tax-exempt status because of an anti-war sermon a visiting minister preached here a while back. Never mind that across town another minister basically told his parishioners that they'd burn in hell if they didn't vote in the current president."

"Oh, wow," I said, knowing that was completely inadequate. If I'd still been living at home I'm sure I would have been treated to one of my father's rampages about how the current administration was trying to lead us into fascism, but one advantage of sharing a house with Smike was that I got to miss out on political tirades. "That's...terrible."

"Yes, it is, and it's taking attention away from more worthy subjects, unfortunately." He sighed, then went on, "Anyhow, I got your message after I'd gotten back from a meeting with our lawyer and accountant, so let's just say that I wasn't in the best of tempers."

Since I didn't really know what else I should say, I just murmured, "I'm sorry," then waited.

"One piece of good news," Will continued, his tone a little more brisk. "Raoul Ortiz left me a message yesterday that he thought his contact at the local FBI lab would be able to get to your gown early next week, so we won't have to wait as long as we thought."

"That's great," I said, and hoped it was. What if the tests on the gown didn't prove anything? Will had said he would still help me out, but I knew my credibility would take a beating if the gown turned out to be nothing more than a fancy costume made out of fabrics anyone could have gotten their hands on. Still, I supposed that knowing something -- anything -- was better than knowing nothing. "I'm really interested to hear what they have to say."

Maybe Will picked up on the note of false cheeriness in my voice. "You know that's not the deciding factor, Sarah," he said. "When I said I'd help you no matter what, I meant it."

His words should have cheered me up, but somehow they just started a funny little ache in my chest. Right now I was only a duty for him -- and I wanted to be so much more.

But I managed to sound reasonably normal when I replied, "Thanks, Will," and didn't even hesitate over his name. After all, I couldn't go on avoiding it day after day. Then I said, "Well, I've got to get going, and I'm sure you have a lot to do -- "

"I do, but don't let that stop you from calling me. In fact, here's my cell number, in case it's an emergency and I'm not in the office. Do you have a pen?"

Thank God I did, because I always carry a notepad and pen in my bag in case I need to jot down SKU numbers and that sort of thing when I'm trolling the fabric stores. I scrabbled around in my purse, found the pad and pen (which of course had migrated to the bottom of my bag), and said, "OK, shoot."

Will gave me the number and had me read it back to him to make sure I'd gotten it down right. There was a brief pause, and then he said, "Don't hesitate to call. You're in a tough situation, and -- well, I can't help worrying."

If he worried about me, then that meant I was in his thoughts at least occasionally. And if he kept thinking about me, well...I didn't know where things might lead, but I could hope. Maybe all it really needed was him being around me enough to remember some of the past we had once shared.

"I appreciate that," I said, wishing I didn't sound so formal.

"No problem," he replied, then, "Oh -- there's my other line -- "

I broke in. "Go ahead and take it. I'll be fine."

"Good-bye, Sarah."

The call cut off, and I sat there for a moment, cradling the phone in my hand. My heart was beating quickly -- silly, really, when all he'd done was offer me the same consideration he probably would have shown to any of his parishioners. Still, he'd given me his cell number. That was something.

Holding the precious piece of paper in one hand, I programmed the number into my phone. Then I locked up both items in the glove compartment and hurried out of the car to get on with my shopping.

Saturday mornings the Fashion District is always crowded, but I already knew which stores I needed to hit and proceeded from shop to shop in a route I'd planned out carefully before arriving in downtown L.A. It was really the only way to get anything accomplished down there; it's way too easy to get distracted and start buying stuff for future projects when you've already got enough on your plate to keep you busy for the next six months.

But on my way back to the car I caught a glimpse of some amazing embroidered silk in a shop window and just had to duck inside to take a look at it. I couldn't help thinking that the deep claret-red would look gorgeous with the antiques Mike owned. Overall the fabrics and wall coverings in Mike's house were on the fussy side, and I would have wondered why he kept the place decorated that way except that I knew he never bothered about trivial stuff like that. Oh, if one of the couches or chairs suddenly collapsed under him he probably would have gone about replacing it, but that was probably the extent of his decorating ambition.

Not mine, however. As I stood in the shop, fingering the heavy dupioni and trying to ignore the shopkeeper's enticing come-on of "For you -- good price!", I had a sudden thought. Oh, sure, the wedding had been a constant distraction, but Smike had taken it in stride far too well. If I suddenly got a bug up my butt about redecorating the house, though, it would most likely be far more disruptive. It was a lot easier to ignore stacks of bridal magazines and comments about floral arrangements than it was to remain oblivious to people stripping off wallpaper or redoing your floors.

I wouldn't go completely nuts -- I'd preserve the character of the house as much as possible. Nothing drives me more crazy than seeing people decorate vintage homes with ultra-modern furniture. What's the point of living in what the realtors like to call a "character home" if you're not going to enjoy the design elements that make it unique? On the other hand, Mike's house was definitely due for an overhaul, and this seemed like the perfect time to do it.

With an evil grin, I said, "I'll take thirty yards," and slapped my platinum Visa card down on the counter next to the cash register. _Take that, Mr. Westerfield_, I thought.

* * *

When I got home a few hours later, Smike was nowhere in evidence in the house. I knew he had to be around somewhere, since his car was in the garage. Frowning a little, I dropped my purchases on the floor next to the sofa table, called out "Mike!", and waited. 

No reply, but then I noticed the French doors off the living room were open to the backyard. I made my way outside, looked around, and was rewarded with the sight of Smike's rear end pointed directly toward me.

"Nice view," I commented.

He'd been on his hands and knees on the lawn over where it connected to the side yard. At my comment, Smike straightened up and sat back on his heels, then frowned at some sort of mechanical gizmo he held in his left hand.

"What's that?" I asked. It was making noises sort of like a Geiger counter, although I sincerely hoped he wasn't measuring radioactivity levels in the backyard. Having a glow-in-the-dark yard would definitely be the cherry on the cake of my day.

"Just taking some readings." Still frowning, he picked up his PDA from the grass where it lay next to him, set down the Geiger counter thingy, and started scribbling away with a stylus.

I moved a little closer and looked over his shoulder. Not that that helped much -- he was scribbling a series of Greek symbols and numbers in Mike's trademark architect-ish hand. I hoped the PDA interface could keep up.

"Readings for what?" I inquired.

"Wait a second -- " Smike bent over, apparently squinting at the readout on the counter. Then he said, "Move toward me."

Wondering what the hell was going on, I took a few cautious steps in his direction, then paused.

He didn't look up, but instead kept staring at the LCD readout on the little gizmo as it rested on the ground. Finally he said, "Fascinating," sounding so much like Mr. Spock that I couldn't help letting out a small chuckle.

"What, am I radioactive or something?" I asked.

At last he glanced up at me, although I got the feeling that he wasn't so much focusing _on_ me as _through_ me. "I'm not measuring radioactivity," he replied.

"Well, thank God for that."

The old Mike might have smiled. Instead, Smike continued to frown as he said, "I'm measuring tachyons."

Planting my hands on my hips, I remarked, "Oh, well...naturally." I lifted an eyebrow at him. "What the hell is a tachyon?"

"I doubt you would understand."

"Try me."

With a sigh, he stood, brushing at the damp knees of his jeans. "A tachyon is a hypothetical particle that travels at superluminal velocities."

My mind grabbed hold of the only part of the sentence it could comprehend. "If it's hypothetical, how can you measure it?"

"Because it's not hypothetical after all." Smike bent down and picked up the little device after he slipped the PDA into the breast pocket of his shirt.

I started to get that Alice-in-Wonderland, down-the-rabbit-hole sensation again. "And someone makes a device to measure something that up until recently was only hypothetical?"

"'Someone' doesn't," Smike replied. "_I_ did."

"You _made_ that?" I gaped at the little brushed-metal box with its liquid-crystal readout. It had several leads coming out of it that must have been some sort of sensors, but really it didn't look all that special.

"Well, how could I measure tachyons if I didn't have a device to do it with?"

That sounded reasonable…sort of. Rather, I didn't know enough on the subject to construct even a halfway coherent question, so instead I asked, "Why tachyons in the backyard?"

Smike gave me a half-contemptuous smile. "Don't you recognize this spot?"

I looked down, then felt a thin trickle of cold move down my spine. Unless my memory were failing me, this just happened to be the exact place where I had fallen through into Middle Earth.

Coincidence? I doubted it.

I didn't reply, and his smirk deepened. "I see that you do. I'm investigating whether it was a one-time occurrence, or whether there is some anomaly in the space-time continuum in this one particular spot. I did get some interesting readings, but the most intriguing part is that the tachyon emissions increased as you moved closer to ground zero."

That really did make it sound like a nuclear bomb, and I took a nervous step backward. "But I've been out here lots of times since, and I haven't had a repeat of that experience." _Too bad_, I added mentally, _since Middle Earth is probably a great place to be right now, considering you're not there anymore._

"I'm sure there are other factors involved than your mere presence." Smike pressed a button on the side of the gizmo, and the screen went dark. "But this is a promising beginning."

_Beginning to what?_ I wondered darkly, but I didn't have to let my imagination range too far to find the answer to that question. I was no scientist, but even I knew that the first step to reproducing a phenomenon was to observe its separate elements and analyze how their interactions created the original incident. And if he'd somehow been able to fabricate a device that actually measured something which had been purely theoretical up until that point -- well, it just showed that I wouldn't be underestimating the combined Mike/Sauron think tank any time in the near future.

But I couldn't let him see that he'd rattled me. I just smiled at him and said lightly, "Guess I'd better start picking out my dress for the Nobel banquet, then." And with that I turned and headed back into the house.

After a brief pause Smike followed along behind me, then stopped and stared at the pile of shopping bags next to the sofa table. "I thought you said you were doing a 'little' shopping."

I had to bend down over one of the bags to conceal my own smirk. "Well, I saw this fabric, and I had the greatest idea!" That remark was issued in the chirpy-bright tone I knew Smike hated. I could almost hear his teeth grinding from where I stood.

"What idea?" he asked slowly.

"Sorry, but the chintz in this place was really getting to me. So I thought I'd do a little redecorating."

"Re -- what?"

With a flourish, I drew a length of the embroidered dupioni out of its bag. "Isn't it gorgeous? I'm going to do all the curtains in here with this fabric. Of course, it means we'll have to buy new couches and steam off all the wallpaper and repaint -- or maybe do Venetian plaster -- but I think it will make all the difference in the world!"

He crossed his arms and glared at me. "Is this as joke?"

In response I widened my eyes and shot him what I hoped was an innocent look. "Joke? No. I figured if I this were going to be my house too then I should make it a little more mine -- I mean, this place looks like someone's grandmother lives here!"

"My -- Mike's grandmother did live here." The dark eyes glinted at me, and I could tell he was getting pretty steamed.

Perfect.

But I continued with the innocent act. "I thought you inherited this house from your -- I mean, Mike's grandfather."

"I did -- he did." Smike's eyes narrowed a bit, as he obviously went into the archives to dredge up the relevant information. "Mike's grandparents separated when he was very young, but his grandfather wouldn't hear of a divorce, so he bought this house for his estranged wife. When she passed away he retained ownership, and when he died he left the house to Mike. Apparently the grandfather never lived here at all -- he had a separate residence not too far away, which Mike's father subsequently inherited and now uses as a rental property. Any other questions?"

His tone invited anything but further questioning, so I said, "No, that pretty much clears it up."

Obviously my reply did little to mollify him, because he went on, "Don't you think you're taking on a little too much? After all, we do have a wedding coming up in less than six months."

"Piece of cake," I said blithely. "I mean, Tricia is handling all the details, so I don't have too much to do. Speaking of which, are you available next Tuesday afternoon? She needs us to meet with the cake designer and taste samples so we can decide what we want."

Most guys would have been happy to go eat cake for an afternoon, but of course Smike wasn't "most guys." He shot me an irritated look and said in grudging tones, "If I must."

"Well, I can pick it out if you don't want to, but it will look weird if you don't come." That was the gambit I always used whenever Smike tried to weasel out of some wedding-related duty. The one thing he seemed to fear was not playing his role correctly. If the real Mike would have gone to some cake designer's shop (God forbid you should call her a baker) and tried different samples of cake until he made himself sick from sugar, well, then, Sauron would do the same, or die trying.

"I'll be there," he said immediately, and I had to repress a smile.

"Great." With that I turned and surveyed the living room, making a mental list of what could stay and what could go. I probably couldn't improve upon the lovely Victorian antiques, but the wall coverings and drapes were toast, as was the carpet. I went over to the closest corner and squatted down, picking at the carpet where it met the floorboards. As I had hoped, the yawn-inducing beige berber hid what looked like some gorgeous hardwood floors.

"What are you doing?" Smike asked, in a voice tinged with wariness and -- to my delight -- alarm.

"Confirming a suspicion. Some Philistine put carpets over the original wood floors. So I'm going to pull all this up and see what condition it's in. We'll probably need to have it sanded, and then -- "

He shook his head. "Somehow I get the feeling I'm going to be spending a lot more time at the lab."

"Oh, it won't be that bad." Actually, it probably would. I knew this from personal experience because I'd spent a miserable few days several years ago when my parents had refurbished the wood floors in my own house. Those floor sanders are _loud_. Still, I didn't want to scare Smike too much. With any luck, he'd be at home trying to work in his office when the floor guys showed up to do the job. "Besides," I added, "I absolutely guarantee that you will like this place much better when I'm done with it. I mean, if you're going to be in this world for a while, shouldn't you have a home that suits you better?"

The quizzical look Smike gave me indicated that reducing the floral factor in the pretty Tudor-style house wasn't quite equal to having his old digs at Barad Dûr restored to him. OK, maybe Sauron's previous headquarters had square footage we currently lacked, but it wasn't very cozy. Or maybe he was just thinking that he'd made the first step toward conquering new galaxies or whatever, and therefore having refinished floors wasn't high on his list of priorities.

But whatever might have been going through his mind, he apparently decided to abandon the argument, because he just shrugged and said, "If that's what you want."

"It is," I said right away.

Smike's gaze shifted to the bags of fabric on the floor. Thirty yards of embroidered silk can be pretty bulky. "And you're going to do this yourself?"

"Oh, not all of it. But the drapes -- yeah, no problem. It's mostly a lot of hemming."

"Mmm." For a second he looked so out of his element -- so completely _Mike_ -- that I felt a rush of unexpected pity. I guess even Dark Lords have a tough time dealing with the intricacies of interior decoration.

Surprising even myself, I got on my tiptoes and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. "You won't regret it. I promise."

For a second he appeared completely shocked, and then his mouth curved in the familiar cool smile. "I don't know," he said slowly. "I may come to regret it quite a bit."

_You have no idea_, I thought. _Just wait until the combined whammy of seating charts and house painters hits you upside the head._

And with that thought to comfort me, I gave him a quick smile, then gathered up my purchases so I could stow them away in my sewing studio over the garage.

This was going to be _lots_ of fun.


	11. Evidence

Happy Halloween, everyone! One last update before I disappear to participate in National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo). I am going to try to do one update during November, but it really depends on how well the work on my NaNo novel is going. I won't be posting that, since it's an original work and I hope that maybe one day I can submit it for publication, but if you'd like to be added to the f-list for the LJ it's being posted in, just drop me a note and let me know what your LJ ID is. That way it doesn't count as being "publicly posted."

Thanks for all the reviews, everyone -- I really appreciate you going along on this ride with me!

* * *

Eleven: Evidence

It's amazing how quickly you can make things happen when you've got money to throw at the problem. Monday morning two guys in serious-looking jumpsuits showed up to steam away the offending floral wallpaper in the living room and then apply Venetian plaster in a warm parchment shade. I decided to play hooky from school so that I could supervise; my attendance had been almost spotless up until that point, so I figured I could spare the time. I even finally got around to attempting to make real food in the crock pot while they began setting up in the living room.

Besides, once the guys got down to business I was able to go up to my studio over the garage and get some work done on the costumes for my Studio Design class -- I had a little more than a month until the end of the fall term, and things were starting to stack up on me. Smike had disappeared at an even earlier hour than usual for him, which of course was what I'd been hoping for in the first place.

After I'd gotten off the phone with the painters on Saturday, I'd collected the mail and found one unwelcome item -- as I'd feared, Mr. Westerfield had apparently decided to take it upon himself to invite the whole gang to his home for Thanksgiving. Barely an hour later the phone had rung. My mother, of course, asking if I'd known anything about this and didn't Mr. Westerfield know that my family had its own traditions for the holidays?

Tempting as it would have been to just tell her to call Nathaniel Westerfield himself and have it out with him (if she could have even gotten through, which I somehow doubted), I managed to smooth things over by telling her I was sure Mr. Westerfield just wanted to have us all celebrating together, one big happy family, blah, blah, blah. My mother still made a few frustrated noises -- she harbored a dark suspicion that Mr. Westerfield was probably going to have the whole thing catered, and that went against everything she believed in -- but eventually she caved. I think even my mother, redoubtable as she might be in other matters, quailed at the thought of taking on Nathaniel Westerfield.

I told her about my plans for the house, and although she brought up the same concerns Smike had -- namely, that I was putting way too much on my plate -- she did agree that it was important for me to feel at home in my new residence. Smike had actually surprised me by letting me drag him out of the house Saturday afternoon to look at new couches at several upscale furniture stores in Pasadena. Feeling slightly guilty about the torture I was putting him through, I settled on something from the third place we visited. Of course, the gorgeous overstuffed pieces were exactly what I had been looking for anyway, so I would have been even more of a hypocrite if I had passed them by just to prolong the retail agony for Smike.

My mother did seem pleased when I informed her that Mike had gone shopping with me, and after agreeing with her that yes, he was a very nice young man, and _so_ accommodating, I managed to get her off the phone. If only she knew that that nice young man had been crawling around on his hands and knees in the backyard just a few hours earlier, looking for a wormhole into another dimension so he could go back to dominating and enslaving entire worlds.

The wallpaper steaming and subsequent plastering went far more quickly than I thought it would. Of course, most of my knowledge of home improvement came from _Trading Spaces_. When you had real professionals involved, things tended to go much more smoothly. By about five o'clock they were done with the living room and adjoining dining room, had packed up their equipment, and gone. The plaster would continue to set and dry for another twenty-four hours, but overall the house hadn't been significantly disrupted. They'd even moved the furniture back into place for me, albeit a few more inches away from the walls than it normally was.

So much for having the house completely trashed when Smike came home from Caltech. Oh, well -- the master bedroom/bathroom renovation would certainly cause a lot more trouble, even though the house had two full baths. My plans called for that to be done last, since I'd thought the main areas of the home needed the most work, but with any luck by Christmas we'd be squatting in the guest bedroom and dodging plumbers and electricians.

It was a little past six-thirty when Smike came home. I heard him unlock the front door, and he stuck his head in and looked around with some caution before he apparently decided it was safe to come in. By then it was full dark, and I'd turned on the lamps, pleased by the warm glow the incandescent light gave to the fresh plaster. The parchment color would look even better once I had the drapes up; the plasterers had of course taken down the curtain rods, and I'd taped newspapers up across the windows so we wouldn't have the entire neighborhood looking in on us.

"What do you think?" I asked.

"The newspapers are lovely," Smike replied, dropping his laptop case and book bag on our usual dumping ground by the sofa table.

"Rot," I said, but there was little venom in the word. It wouldn't be Smike if he weren't looking for some way to needle me. "I'll put the curtain rods back up once the plaster is dry."

"Hmm." He stood in the middle of the room, arms crossed as he gazed around at the walls. "It does look...better."

That grudging admission surprised me. I'd thought for sure he'd find some reason to dislike what I'd done.

"Well, uh -- thanks, I guess," I said.

Then he turned in the direction of the kitchen and gave an appreciative sniff. "Is that actual food I smell?"

"Yes. My mother was stressing over the fact that we never eat what she calls 'real food,' so she gave me a recipe for roast to do in the crock pot. She said it was foolproof."

"We'll see about that," Smike muttered, but he still seemed remarkably mellow -- so much so that he actually set the table while I finished up in the kitchen.

The gravy was a little lumpier than when my mother made it, but otherwise the meal turned out pretty well, especially considering it was the first time I'd done any cooking more ambitious than scrambled eggs or grilled cheese sandwiches.

As we ate we talked of inconsequential things -- I told him about the work I'd gotten done on my project, and he informed me that his department was going to get the major grant they'd applied for some months earlier. Just normal, everyday conversation, the sort any engaged couple might have. Several times during dinner I had to remind myself that it wasn't really Mike I was speaking to.

He even unbent enough to help me clear the table, although of course rinsing the dishes off and putting them in the dishwasher was utterly beneath him. Instead, he disappeared into the living room, where I heard him fussing with the stereo. After I was done with the dishes I went out to see what he was up to.

His iPod sat in the cradle that allowed it to be jacked into the stereo receiver, and he was scrolling through its contents, obviously looking for something.

"What are you doing?" I asked, pausing a few feet away and giving him a suspicious look.

"I've got something for you."

"I bet you do."

That comment elicited a scowl, but his tone remained surprisingly pleasant as he replied, "We're supposed to have a first dance, right?"

"Yes," I said. "Been doing your homework, I see."

"Well, I heard this song a few days ago on a commercial or something, and I thought it would be a good choice."

I tried to guess what Smike would think was a good candidate for our first dance and failed miserably. "Oh?"

"Here it is." He stepped away from the bookshelf where the stereo receiver sat. "What do you think?"

At first I didn't recognize it -- the song opened with some torchy-sounding violins. But then I heard Etta James' throaty vocals, and knew what it was right away. My parents loved that song -- I'd even surprised them dancing to it one New Year's Eve when I should have been in bed but had come downstairs to get a glass of water.

_At last...my love has come along..._

From Mike's perspective, I suppose it probably was perfect.

I stood there, mute, just listening, and before I realized what was happening he stepped closer and took me in his arms, moving along to the music.

"Taking some lessons from Arthur Murray in your spare time?" I asked, in what I hoped were sarcastic enough tones.

He shook his head. "Instructional DVDs," he replied, and pulled me a little closer. I could feel his hand move up to glide through my hair, and then slide down to the back of my neck. His lips brushed against my ear. What he said next was completely unexpected.

"I love you, Sarah."

My body continued to move with the music, but my brain felt as if it had been beaten with a blunt object. For a moment I couldn't say anything. When I finally found my voice, I asked, "How can you expect me to believe that?"

"Because it's the truth." The song ended, but Smike must have set it up to repeat, because it began to play over again.

I made a small movement, as if to pull away from him, but he held me firmly. "The truth for whom?" I said. "You, or Mike?"

"Does it matter?"

"Of course it does!" This time I did manage to disentangle myself from his arms. "That's not exactly the sort of thing you go around saying whenever you feel like it!"

"But that's where you're wrong." His dark eyes scanned mine. He had the sort of frank, open look on his face that I hadn't seen much since Sauron took up residence. So was that Mike gazing back at me with those puppy-dog eyes, or a Dark Lord who was getting better and better at playacting as time wore on? "Mike loves you, so I love you. Is that so difficult to understand?"

"Understanding and believing are two entirely different things," I retorted, wishing I didn't feel so much as if I were sinking into quicksand.

"Are they?" He took my hands in his, and I stiffened, but all he did was turn them over and trace the lifeline on my left palm with his thumb. "This life we have, for example. Never before could I comprehend what it was that drove mortal beings to seek one another out. I had no need of such things. But being here, living with you, waking next to you each morning -- what I once would have scorned, I find now that I desire. Perhaps it is Mike's influence, as you suggest. These days I find it difficult to tell. And perhaps it doesn't matter one way or the other. If you couldn't care for me, could you not at least care for Mike?"

_Not in that way_, I wanted to protest, but somehow the words strangled in my throat. I didn't know what to think anymore. I wanted Gorendil, but the man I had known was dead, and the one who now wore his face didn't seem to remember anything of our past together. Did Will Gordon even _want_ to remember? So far he hadn't said or done anything that could possibly be construed as improper, even though he could have used my minor meltdown in his office as an excuse to put his arms around me...if he'd been so inclined. But he hadn't. Maybe he'd already decided that a few random feelings of recognition certainly weren't worth getting involved with someone who was probably half his age.

As for myself...I didn't know what to think anymore. Certainly I got along with Smike far better than I should have with someone I was supposed to hate. If Mike's personality had begun to inextricably entwine itself with Sauron's, how could I hate the person the two of them had become? The Gorendil in my dream had said that I loved Mike, though perhaps not in a romantic sense. There had always been affection between us, though, and if Mike's feelings had somehow softened Sauron's, what then? In some ways, it was even more difficult to struggle against this supposed love than it would have been to fight open antagonism.

Apparently Smike took my continuing silence as some sort of tacit acquiescence. Once again he moved closer, and I, God help me, did nothing to stop him. His mouth found the sensitive place on my neck, and my heart began to pound as he kissed me there, then trailed down to the base of my throat. I felt his hands slide over my breasts, then move beneath my sweater to fumble with the clasp on my bra. Again, I made no protesting movement, instead letting him remove my top, then slide the bra straps off my shoulders. His hands were warm against my bare skin, and I shut my eyes as I felt his lips brush against the sensitive flesh. Was it wrong that it felt good? Had these past few months with him destroyed all my resistance?

I didn't know. His mouth traced lower, and suddenly he was kneeling before me, pulling off my jeans and underwear, his tongue moving places it had never gone before. I couldn't hold in the moan that escaped my lips. Instead I buried my hands in his hair, pushing him against me, until the climax finally shuddered its way through my body. Gasping, I collapsed on the couch, even as I heard him fumble with his own clothing. Then he was on top of me, entering me, and though by now the touch of his flesh against mine should have been familiar, something about it felt different this time. This time I welcomed him, held him against me, felt his body move with mine until another orgasm flooded me with heat a few seconds before he reached his own climax. Afterward he held me, his heart beating almost as fast as mine. I felt his lips move against my neck, although he made no sound. Still, I somehow knew that again he was telling me he loved me.

I couldn't respond. I just lay there, trembling, wondering what the hell had just happened...and what on earth I should do next.

* * *

The next morning I got myself out of the house as quickly as I could. Of course I had the excuse of a nine o'clock class to make my haste plausible, but that wasn't the real reason why I tore out of there at seven-thirty. No, I just didn't know how to face Smike after the way I had acted the evening before. 

After sliding out of bed while he still slept and taking a hurried shower, I gathered up my clothes and got dressed in the guest bath. Once more I found myself thanking God for how heavily Smike slept; I was in my car and backing out of the driveway while he still snored away in the master bedroom.

The thought kept banging away in my head, over and over again, as I inched my way down the freeway into the city. _How could you? How could you?_

I didn't even have the excuse of being drunk, the way I had the night of the engagement party. No, I'd been stone-cold sober, and I'd still felt pleasure in a way I thought I never would again. Not since Gorendil --

Pressing my lips into a grim line, I tried to banish that thought, even as I mentally cursed the jerk in the Escalade who lurched his way in front of me at the merge with the Golden State Freeway. One of these days my poor Beetle was going to get squashed, well, like a bug, with the way some of those SUV drivers acted.

My glove compartment rang. For a second I stared at it, perplexed, then realized of course my little Virgin Mobile phone was locked up in there. And only one person could be calling that particular phone...

_Shit, shit, shit, shit_, I cursed, knowing that the key to the glove compartment swung from the same key chain that was now occupied with my ignition. There was no way I could remove the key in time, so I had to sit there and fume while the ringing went on for a few more seconds, then trailed off into ominous silence. I could only hope that at least Will had left a message.

About a minute later I heard a little chirp from the glove compartment, which meant that yes, he had left a voicemail. I'd just have to retrieve it after I pulled into the parking garage at school. Never before had the crawling pace of the 110 Freeway seemed so excruciating, but eventually I was able to pull off at Ninth Street and limp my way into the parking garage.

I practically tore the keys out of the ignition, then fumbled with the lock on the glove compartment. Seizing the phone, I hit the button to connect with voicemail, and then worked my way through the prompts.

Will's voice. Of course. But the first message was actually from the evening before. He said he'd heard back from the analysis guy with the FBI, and that the man wanted us to meet with him at his offices downtown at our earliest convenience. The time stamp on that one was around eight o'clock at night -- a time when I'd been occupied with activities whose memory now brought a rush of heat to my cheeks. The second message was of course from just a few minutes earlier, and had actually come from Will's cell phone.

I looked up the number in my contacts list and then pushed the button to send. The phone rang twice, and then he answered. "Hello?"

"I'm really sorry," I said breathlessly. "The phone was locked in the glove compartment, and I was driving. And I didn't get your other message until just now."

"That's all right," he replied. "I wasn't sure how available you were in the evenings, but I thought it was better to get in touch with you as soon as I could."

"So this guy wants us to meet with him? I thought he was just going to give his analysis to Detective Ortiz or something."

"That's what I thought, too, but apparently he wants to see us in person."

My mouth felt suddenly dry. "Um...is that a bad thing?"

The hesitation on his end was almost palpable. "I don't know," he said finally. "What's your schedule like today?"

"I'm done at noon, actually," I replied. "You said this guy's office is in downtown L.A.? I could just head over there after my Illustration class is over with."

"Let me make sure he's available then. Can I call you back on this number?"

I glanced at my watch. Because of my early departure, I still had a good half hour until my first class started. "Yes -- but I'll have to shut it off at nine, because then I'll be in class."

"I'll try to get back to you before then. Sit tight." And with that he hung up, as I slowly lowered the phone from my ear and stared at it, my heart beating much faster than it should have.

How could the sound of his voice affect me so? And how could I have let Smike -- well, how could I have possibly gone along with any of that if I still had all these crazy irrational feelings for William Gordon? I was starting to sound like a great candidate for a heavy dose of Prozac.

To kill some time, I pulled the compact out of my purse and checked my lip gloss, then held the mirror a little further away and studied myself critically, as if I thought I might find some physical evidence of my indiscretions of the night before. I looked a little tired, but at least Smike hadn't left any hickeys on my neck. I could only hope that I wouldn't radiate waves of guilt if I did actually end up seeing Will in person today.

As if my thoughts about him were a signal, the phone rang again.

_Stop that!_ I told my wildly beating heart, then said, "Yes?"

"We're on for twelve-thirty. The Federal Building is up off First Street. Do you know how to get there?"

"Sure," I said. I'd never had any reason to go there before this, but I'd driven past it and thought I remembered where the entrance to the underground parking was located.

"See you then," he said, and hung up.

Well, that was that. Will sounded rushed and hurried again -- not that I could blame him. He probably had all sorts of other things going on, yet he was somehow making the time to come tearing down here in the middle of the day. In a way, his brusqueness helped me to calm down a little. He certainly wasn't treating this as a secret tryst, so I could tell my stupid heart to stop with the arrhythmia already.

After that I dragged myself out of the car and headed up to my first class. Luckily it was a lecture, so I could sit there and look as if I were taking notes when my brain was really a million miles away. Being a space case in my Illustration class was a little more difficult, but luckily drawing tended to relax me, so I managed to survive my morning sessions without making a complete idiot out of myself.

I grabbed a quick bite from the little café around the corner from school; I didn't know what sorts of food might be available near the Federal Building, and I figured it would be safer to at least eat something before my meeting. Then I retrieved my car from the garage and pointed it northward along Spring Street.

Since by then it was right smack in the middle of the lunch hour, the streets were packed. I crawled from intersection to intersection, glancing frequently at my watch and feeling my blood pressure mount as the minutes ticked by. Finally I spotted the Federal Building, but of course I saw the entrance to the underground parking lot too late and had to circle the block before I could pull in. By then it was almost twelve-thirty-five, and I raced up the steps to the lobby, not bothering to wait for an elevator. Once there I had to go through a metal detector and then sign in, which slowed me down even further.

Will was already in the lobby waiting for me; I stammered a breathless apology, and he said with a smile, "That's all right -- I'm sure five minutes won't make that much of a difference."

Again, he was wearing what I thought of as "civilian clothes" -- a dark shirt and black slacks, professional and yet casual at the same time. I supposed that wearing a clerical collar could be a little uncomfortable, not to mention making you stand out like a sore thumb, especially in a building full of government types like the one where we now stood.

I followed him into an elevator and watched as he pressed the button for the ninth floor. We rode up in silence, but before it could get too awkward I asked, "Is Detective Ortiz meeting us here?"

"Raoul?" Will replied, looking a little surprised. "No. He put me in touch with Agent Mills, but there wasn't any real reason for him to be here."

"Oh," I said. I supposed if I'd thought about it I would have realized that a detective with the Pasadena PD wouldn't have any reason to sit in on a fiber-analysis discussion.

At that point the elevator reached the ninth floor, and I trailed along behind Will as we stopped at a receptionist's desk. He told the pretty black woman there that we were here to see Agent Mills, and she pointed down the hall. "Third doorway on the right," she said, after giving Will an appraising look and a warm smile.

Part of my brain went, _Back off, honey!_ even though I knew I had no more claim on him than she did. Still, it's amazing how quickly those territorial instincts can kick in.

Agent Mills turned out to be a thin, wispy man somewhere in his late forties or early fifties with graying fair hair and a perpetually worried expression. Will seemed to tower over him, but he didn't seem intimidated by his much more physically impressive visitor.

Then Agent Mills looked past Will's shoulder to me and asked, "So is this your gown I've been looking at?"

I nodded.

"Fascinating." Then he seemed to recover himself and indicated the two chairs that faced his paper-covered desk. "Sit down -- please."

We sat and watched as Agent Mills took his own seat behind the desk and gathered up a manila file folder. He flicked through a few pages of material, then said, "First off, the belt. Nothing there -- pure silver, rather than the usual alloys we see, but that's not terribly unusual. Same with the stones -- alkali feldspar."

"Excuse me?" I asked.

He blinked. "Commonly known as moonstone. The piece is fairly valuable because of the amount of silver involved and the quality and size of the stones, but other than that it's not unusual in any way."

Damn. I flickered a sideways glance at Will, but he kept staring straight ahead, his gaze fixed on Agent Mills.

"But the gown itself -- " The agent paused and gave me a hard, searching look quite at odds with his Professor Milquetoast appearance. "Can I ask where you got it?"

"Um -- " I bit my lip, then said, "I'm afraid I'm not at liberty to say."

"Hmm." He frowned a little, then went on, "I'm doing this as a favor for Raoul, and since it's private property and not evidence I don't have grounds for keeping it, but..."

"But what?" I prompted.

Agent Mills' frown deepened. "Let's just say I've never seen anything like it before in my life."

At that Will stirred finally. "How do you mean?"

"The base fiber is ordinary silk, but the metallic threads woven through it -- " Agent Mills lifted his shoulders. "It looks like silver, but it's not. For one thing, heavy as the fabric is, if those threads were merely silver it would be much, much heavier. Also, whatever metal those threads are composed of, it's unbelievably strong. Sort of like a weird combination of titanium and silver."

_Mithril_, I thought, _that same special silver Frodo's mail shirt was made out of._ Again I glanced over at Will; now he wore a frown to mirror the one on Agent Mills' face.

"So what is it exactly?" Will asked.

"Every test we subjected it to came back with the same results: 'Element unknown.'" He closed the file folder and folded his hands on top of it, and his gray eyes, which had looked so mild, suddenly seemed as penetrating as scalpels. "Whatever it is, it's not from this earth..."

Then Will turned and looked at me. I stared back at him, hoping this final piece of evidence would be the one thing that convinced him I wasn't a raving lunatic after all.

"I think," he said, "that you and I have a lot to discuss..."


	12. Implications

I'm back, finally. I decided to just keep going with the novel I was writing last month for National Novel Writing Month and not take any breaks, which is why I didn't have a chance to update this until now. Thanks for your patience -- I don't anticipate having to go on hiatus like that again, so I'm hoping I can do about a chapter a week from now on.

* * *

Twelve: Implications

Located just around the corner from the Federal Building was Pershing Square, an open-air plaza that provided Will and me with an easy place to escape to after we left Agent Mills' office. What neither of us had counted on was the fact that during the holidays one end of the plaza had been set up with an ice skating rink, so the place swarmed with kids, even though it was the middle of a work day. We'd apparently just missed a lunch-hour concert, though, so we were able to snag a table as a group of business-suited lawyer types vacated it.

I carried the gown in its plastic bag; Agent Mills had asked if he could keep it for further inspection, but I'd decided that wasn't a very good idea and had declined. He did inquire as to where precisely I'd gotten it, and I managed to stammer out that someone had given it to me. That wasn't even a lie -- after all, Sauron had given me the silver gown, along with all the other contents of my Middle Earth wardrobe.

Will had kept mostly silent, and had suggested Pershing Square after we left the Federal Building. I'd agreed, since I couldn't think of an excuse I could give for bailing out immediately that would make any sense. Besides, I wanted to spend as much time in his company as possible, even though I got the feeling he was about to start asking me some uncomfortable questions.

It was another one of those cool, cloudy-but-not-rainy days. Still, I nodded my head when Will asked me if I'd like a bottle of water from a vending machine he'd spotted across the way. For some reason my mouth felt sort of dry.

He returned with the water and then sat down across from me at the scarred fiberglass picnic table. I had draped the gown across my lap, just to make sure it stayed safe and clean. The plastic covering should have been enough to protect it, but Will's choice of venues for our conversation wasn't the cleanest place in the world, and I didn't want to take any chances.

Neither one of us spoke for a moment; I avoided his gaze by unscrewing the cap to my water bottle and then taking a long drink.

Finally Will said, "So..."

"So..." I repeated, feeling almost unbelievably awkward. For one thing, even though I had checked myself in the mirror several times and found nothing, I still felt as if some evidence of Smike's and my love fest of the evening before was visible to the naked eye. OK, bad phrasing. Anyway, it would have been hard enough to face a clergyman after that sort of thing without having the clergyman in question be the spitting image of your dead lover. Not knowing what else to say, I remarked, "I guess you believe me now."

Will frowned slightly. "It was never a question of not believing you, but..." A lift of the shoulders, and then he gave me a rueful smile. "All right, maybe there was one part of my brain that was having a hard time believing all this. But when the most sophisticated lab in the country can't identify the material in your gown, then I'm guessing you didn't pick up the fabric somewhere downtown."

"No, it was someplace a little farther away than that," I replied. The gown was a heavy weight in my lap, reminding me of my sojourn in Middle Earth and both the beauties and horrors I had seen there. I clenched my fingers in the plastic wrapping that concealed the dress, letting the cool synthetic material remind me that at least I was back home, even if I did have a displaced Dark Lord in my bed.

Will wore a grave expression. "I can't even imagine what you must have gone through."

I gave a short, humorless laugh. "I wish I couldn't. However, that doesn't seem to be an option." Not wanting to see the flicker of pity that passed over his features, I glanced down and fiddled with the cap on my water bottle. I didn't need his pity, I needed his help -- and I wanted so much more than that. Still, first things first. Taking a breath, I asked, "So how do we really get rid of Sauron? I mean, this isn't quite the same situation as a standard exorcism, is it?"

"If there's such a thing as a 'standard exorcism.'" He took a healthy swallow of his own water, then set the bottle on the scarred tabletop. "No, this is a being outside my experience. Whatever you want to call the demonic spirits who take possession of innocent souls, they do seem to be earthbound, and so are affected by the trappings of earthly belief. Somehow I doubt that Sauron will shrink at the sight of a cross, or think holy water is anything except something wet we might throw at him."

Well, that was great. Not that I had really expected it would be as easy as shouting, "Get thee gone, Sauron," and flinging a bottle of holy water at him. Still, it would have been nice. I said, "I think he's trying to find a way back."

A dark eyebrow lifted. "Back?"

"To Middle Earth." Briefly I explained how I had seen Smike crawling around in the backyard and taking readings from the spot where I had disappeared the first time. Then I added, "It scares me, though, because it sounds as if somehow Sauron has been able to take Mike's knowledge and native intelligence and combine them with his own to make himself that much more effective. I mean, he talked about proving the existence of tachyons as if it were no big thing, but I looked it up -- no one's been able to prove it conclusively. But somehow Smike was able to not only determine that they really do exist but also build a device to measure them. That right there is probably enough to move the field forward at least ten years, but he's treating it as just a means to an end. It scares me."

"What about it scares you the most?" Will's tone was gentle, giving no indication that what I had just told him was at all alarming. It was what I thought of as his minister's voice, and I decided I didn't really like it being directed at me. Then again, he was probably just reacting as he normally would when dealing with someone in crisis.

"Everything about it scares me," I said. "The fact that he's so freaking brilliant that he came up with something Nobel laureates have been arguing over for years. The idea that if he can accomplish that much then it's probably only a matter of time before he does manage to open a doorway into another dimension!"

"If he does, wouldn't that solve your problem?" Will asked. "After all, then he would be gone, and he'd have to leave you alone."

"Maybe," I said, doubt dragging out the word. I couldn't deny that Will had a point, but it was also a selfish one. Possibly he'd made the statement just to see how I would react. "But that's not very fair to the people of Middle Earth or wherever else he might end up, is it? I mean, they just got rid of the bastard. I doubt they'd be too happy to see him popping up on their doorstep again."

"True."

"No," I went on, trying to decide whether I'd really a seen a look of approval on Will's face or not, "we have to banish him, get him out of Mike's body." That comment brought on a momentary flicker of doubt, and I asked, "Does exorcism hurt people? I mean, are they the same afterward?"

Will frowned. "It depends on what you mean by 'hurt.' Sometimes the process can be excruciating -- the invading entity doesn't want to let go, after all, and it can put up quite a fight. And don't think it's necessarily quick, either. I've personally witnessed exorcisms that took days, and the longest one on record lasted almost two months."

Two months? Was he kidding? I stared at Will, aghast.

Obviously noting my expression, he said quickly, "Oh, those are very rare cases. And I want you to know that most of the time people don't remember anything from the time they were possessed. It's as if their minds have blanked out those memories because they're too painful."

Well, in a way that might be a good thing. If we were successful in getting rid of Sauron, then Mike might not remember anything of what had passed between us during these months. He and I wouldn't have to deal with the awkwardness of facing each other simply as friends when we'd been physically intimate for all that time. Of course, we'd have to face the fallout that would result from breaking off the engagement, but the inconvenience would be minor compared to the task of actually evicting the Dark Lord from Mike's body.

Still, I wasn't sure it would work out that easily. "You said 'most of the time.' What else can happen?"

For a few seconds Will wouldn't meet my gaze. Then the gray eyes narrowed, and he said, "A few people have experienced lasting dementia; some have had serious brain damage. And a few -- " He hesitated. "A few have died."

Oh, that was not reassuring at all. I couldn't imagine Mike without his intellect working at full capacity -- his brainpower had always been what had defined him, made him who he was. And the other alternative was death. Great.

"Those are just the extreme cases, Sarah," Will said, again with the calm, soothing tone he no doubt deployed whenever things got sticky during counseling sessions. "It doesn't mean that's what will happen with Mike."

But it could, and that was bad enough. After all, Sauron had confessed to me just the evening before that he loved me because Mike loved me. If their intellects and emotions really had become so entwined with one another that it was almost impossible to know where one ended and the other began, how difficult would it be to remove Sauron from Mike's mind? Assuming Will and I could even come up with some way of banishing the Dark Lord, would it turn out to be a false victory? Would the shock destroy Mike's brain?

I had no way of knowing, of course, and I didn't bother to ask Will, either. For one thing, it would mean confessing a few things I really wasn't ready to tell him -- my complete loss of control with Smike the night before, for one. How could I possibly reveal to Will that Sauron had told me he loved me, and that I'd actually enjoyed having sex with him? I didn't even want to admit it to myself. Maybe it had only happened because I was so tired of fighting against him. Maybe I had fallen prey to some sort of weird Stockholm Syndrome that made me think his touch was something I welcomed instead of loathed. I sort of hoped that was it. At that point, I'd rather have believed I was losing my mind than that I'd started to develop some sort of reciprocal feelings for Smike.

The silence had gotten a little too tense, so I muttered, "If you say so."

Some men might have taken offense at my sullen tone. Not Will, of course, and I don't think Gorendil would have, either. To the casual observer it might have seemed as if I were merely sulking, when in fact I was just trying to figure out what on earth I should do next.

"Everything is a risk," Will said at length. "Would you rather have me lie and tell you this is going to be a walk in the park?"

I responded immediately. "Of course not."

He smiled. "I thought so." Then his expression sobered, and he added, "Have you ever thought that we might need Sauron to succeed in his goal for us to succeed in ours?"

"Uh -- " I wasn't quite sure I had followed what he was saying. "Come again?"

"I mean that no ordinary exorcism ritual is going to work here, obviously. Sauron isn't your run-of-the-mill demon."

I stopped to wonder what constituted a "run-of-the-mill" demon, then shook my head. "Yeah...so?"

"So if you allow Sauron to continue in his investigations, let him figure out how to leave this plane, then when he attempts it, he'll be at his most defenseless. From your account, it sounds as if he arrived here a disembodied spirit. It stands to reason that he'll have to leave in the same manner, which means he would be giving up your friend Mike's body at the second he intends to make the jump back into Middle Earth."

Frowning a little, I considered Will's suggestion. The more I thought about it, the more it actually made sense. After all, we obviously couldn't banish Sauron by invoking the Holy Trinity and reading out of the Bible -- we might as well have been reading selections from the Sunday morning comics for all the significance that text would have for him. And I didn't think that jumping him physically, shaking him, and hoping that Sauron's spirit would pop out like a dislodged piece of meat from someone you'd just performed the Heimlich maneuver on was an option, either. Sauron and Mike were closely linked -- more closely each day, from what I could tell -- and the only way to get rid of the Dark Lord was to wait until he made himself vulnerable.

Of course, the problem there was that we couldn't do anything except wait and hope he would succeed. What if that didn't happen? What if he kept trying but never managed to discover the final step that would allow him to leave this world and return to Middle Earth? Was I supposed to go through with this farce of a wedding? What if (God forbid) he decided he wanted a couple of little Dark Lords to carry on the family line if he was going to be stuck here for the rest of his days?

Some of the doubt and worry I felt must have shown on my face. Will made an odd abortive gesture, as if he'd almost begun to reach out and touch my hand, then thought better of it. I wished he had, but things were complicated enough. Maybe it was better if we just kept things neutral and friendly for a while. Yeah, right.

"I know it's not an optimal solution, but it's all I can think of for now," he said. "Maybe something else will suggest itself. And I have someone I want to talk to..."

"The Morrisons?" I asked. For some reason, the thought of talking to Lorna Morrison again heartened me a little. Something in her manner just seemed to radiate confidence that the universe would eventually sort itself out.

"No," Will replied. "Someone you wouldn't know. He's -- well, he's given me advice a few times that helped me out of some tight spots. He tends to specialize in the unusual."

That sounded vaguely ominous, but I could tell from his expression that Will didn't really want to tell me more. I guessed that some pretty fringe-y people could get involved in the whole exorcism trade -- if there was such a thing.

"Anyway," he went on, "I'll try to think of something that will help more than sitting around and waiting for Sauron to unlock the secrets of the universe. That doesn't exactly appeal to me, either. But at least it's a backup plan."

"OK," I said, wishing I felt a little better about the whole thing. It still seemed as if we were like people blundering around in the dark, reaching out for a light switch that might or might not be there.

"What I need from you, Sarah," Will said, staring at me so gravely that he looked more like Gorendil than ever, "is to keep on with what you've been doing. I know it's difficult -- I can't even imagine how difficult it must be -- but all that's saving us right now is the fact that Sauron seems to think he has you under control. Can you manage that?"

Not knowing what else to do, I just nodded. I didn't feel particularly confident, but if I'd endured my living arrangements with Smike that long I knew I could continue to do so for as long as it took.

"Good," Will said. "So what's coming up next for you?"

November had rushed by, but I still had one hurdle to deal with. I gave Will a watery smile. "Thanksgiving," I replied.

I got the feeling that this time around I wasn't going to be thankful for very much...

* * *

"I still don't see why we have to go to such a fuss," Smike grumbled, fumbling with the French cuffs on his dress shirt.

"Because it's a tradition," I replied, after taking one last look in the bathroom mirror to make sure my lip gloss hadn't decided to bleed all over the place. It was a new brand, and I wasn't sure whether I liked it or not. Crossing my arms, I met his annoyed glare with one of my own and added, "Didn't they have feast days in Middle Earth?"

"Perhaps. It's not as if I was invited to any."

"I can't imagine why," I remarked, and his eyes narrowed further. His fussing was driving me nuts, so I stepped over to him and pushed the cufflink that was giving him so much trouble through the buttonhole and straightened the cuff. "Stop acting like a baby."

"I am not -- " He broke off, as if even he recognized the fact that he'd carried the whole petulant thing a little too far. His gaze grew a little more gentle, and he said, "I'd much rather spend the evening alone here with you."

_I bet you would_, I thought, but I only dredged up a false smile from somewhere in my bag of Smike-fooling tricks and slapped it on. "Plenty of time for that later, lover-boy."

"Is that a promise?"

Several things I would have liked to have said rose to my lips, but I remembered my discussion with Will and how I had promised to keep up the pretense that I was softening toward Smike. "Sure," I replied, "assuming we're not so full from dinner and sleepy with tryptophan that we don't pass out the second we hit the bed."

Smike frowned a little, but apparently he was just accessing the memory banks so he could figure out what tryptophan was, because he said, "Then I'll try not to eat too much."

"Good luck with that." The strongest of resolutions to avoid overindulging inevitably went in the toilet once the first course of Thanksgiving dinner was brought out. Maybe Sauron had a stronger will. Somehow I doubted it, though.

It felt strange to follow Smike out of the house and get in his BMW, only to know that our destination was Mr. Westerfield's mansion and not my parents' house or the home of one of my other relatives. My mother was still feeling a little hinky about the whole thing, since Mr. Westerfield -- or I should say Marcia, his assistant -- had politely shot down every suggestion my mom had made about bringing something to contribute to the feast. Of course the whole thing was being catered, and apparently it was all being done according to some menu that wouldn't work if lowly outside food was brought in to supplement it. Now, I'm sure that's not exactly what Marcia told my mother, but the subtext was clear enough.

When we got there, the house had been tastefully and professionally decorated for the holiday with swags of autumn leaves and arrangements of warm-hued flowers in strategic locations. The enormous table in the dining room was already set with china and crystal that looked as if Mr. Westerfield might have borrowed it from Buckingham Palace for the event. And the man himself, dressed not in his usual suit but an impeccably tailored shirt and dress pants, came to meet us at the door.

Smike and I were the first ones to arrive; I'd made sure we left early, since I wanted to be on hand before my parents or any of my other relatives had shown up. At least Mr. Westerfield had extended the Thanksgiving invitation to not only my parents but also my Aunt Monica and her two children (Monica was divorced), as well as my Uncle Tim, his wife Lara, and their three kids. My cousins ranged in age from Jeff, who was two years older than I, to Courtney, who had turned twelve, and I thanked God there weren't any younger than that. I shuddered to think what might have happened to Mr. Westerfield's gorgeous home if my cousins Adam and Alex, who were twins, hadn't given up the worst of their hell-raising by the time they hit high school.

"The house looks lovely," I said, after Mr. Westerfield had given me the obligatory hug of greeting.

"So do you," he replied, and for the first time I thought I detected a hint of actual approval beneath the words courtesy demanded he say. Well, I had tried to look like a proper daughter-in-law -- it was a fairly cold day, so I'd worn a cashmere cardigan in a warm reddish orange that Bloomie's referred to as persimmon, along with a brownish tweed pencil skirt and brown pumps. The whole ensemble had an old school, country club vibe to it, and obviously Mr. Westerfield liked it. Maybe that Sue Wong gown I'd worn to the engagement party had been a little too skimpy.

At any rate, he led us into the living room and to the built-in bar at the far end, a piece that looked as if it had been lifted _in toto_ from some European villa and airfreighted here. Maybe it had. Mr. Westerfield poured us each a glass of Chardonnay, then raised his own glass toward Smike and me. "To all the reasons we have to give thanks," he said.

_And what might those be?_ I thought, but I knew of course I couldn't say anything like that out loud. No, I just had to smile and murmur something appropriate before taking a hasty sip of my wine so I wouldn't have to say anything else.

Mercifully, the doorbell rang at that point, and Mr. Westerfield excused himself to go answer it. I was sort of surprised he didn't have servants for that sort of thing, given the size of the house, but maybe even he thought that might be a little too pretentious.

"Curious custom," Smike said, after Mr. Westerfield was out of earshot. "To take one day out of the year to remember to be thankful."

"Well, it's better than taking things for granted all the time," I retorted.

"But do you really believe it, or do your people just pay lip service to the concept?"

"Well, _usually_ I would have lots to be thankful for," I replied, emphasizing "usually" so he'd know exactly what I was talking about.

Smike widened his eyes at me. "Why, Sarah, whatever are you referring to?"

I couldn't help it. His tones of puzzled innocence were so perfectly insincere that I let out a little chuckle. He smiled at me then and actually laughed as well.

At that moment, Mr. Westerfield returned with my parents in tow, my mother grimly clutching a wine bottle with an air of "I brought wine, dammit, because you wouldn't let me bring anything else."

"Care to let us in on the joke?" my father asked.

Smike and I exchanged a glance. "Um...I think you had to be there," I replied, after a brief pause.

My mother raised an eyebrow, then smiled and seemed to relax a little. Maybe she was just glad to see Mike and me sharing a private moment; I knew she still had her doubts about our engagement, and she was the person who'd been hardest to fool about the whole situation. Mothers just seem to have a sixth sense when there's something wrong -- at least, mine always did -- and part of the reason I'd kept so many balls in the air what with wedding planning, school, home redecorating, and anything else I could think of was so that I'd keep her off the scent. Or at least that's what I hoped.

Mr. Westerfield chose that moment to pluck the wine bottle out of my mother's hand and set it down with the others on the bar; I sort of doubted we'd end up drinking it with dinner, since no doubt the wines for the evening's meal had been chosen as carefully as the menu itself. But at least he thanked her before the doorbell rang again, and he disappeared to answer it once more.

An awkward silence fell, until my mother turned to Smike and asked, "So, Mike, what have you been working on at school lately? Sarah tells me you're spending lots of time at the lab."

Smike looked a little uncomfortable, so I seized the moment and chimed in, "Yeah, Mike why don't you tell them all about your tachyons?"

One muscle twitched in his jaw, and I knew I'd gotten to him with that one. Somehow I doubted he really wanted to be discussing his research with anyone, least of all my parents. But he just said, in too-calm tones that indicated how irritated he actually was, "Oh, I doubt they want to hear about that. It's really dry, theoretical stuff."

"You'd be surprised," my father said. "I used to read a good bit of science fiction back in the day. Aren't tachyons faster-than-light particles or something like that?"

"Something," Smike admitted in grudging tones.

He was saved from having to comment further by the return of Mr. Westerfield with Mike's Aunt Jocelyn in tow. Of course she'd been invited, but somehow I had conveniently forgotten that she would be there. I grimaced mentally and prayed my family wouldn't do anything to embarrass me. My parents behaved themselves for the most part, but my Uncle Tim could sometimes get a little out of line after he had a few drinks in him, especially if he and my father started discussing politics. Saying they didn't exactly see eye to eye was like saying the nation was just a wee bit divided after the last presidential election. I'd just have to pray that the surroundings would keep everyone on their best behavior.

After that more family members showed up, until finally the whole complement was finally in attendance. Mr. Westerfield certainly knew how to play the gracious host at least, although I supposed he would have had plenty of practice over the years. Still, it was sort of fun to sit down with everyone at the enormous table in the dining room. And there was definitely something nice about eating a Thanksgiving dinner where you knew you weren't going to get drafted to help clean up the kitchen afterward, which had always seemed to be my fate at previous family gatherings.

Smike didn't talk much, but I could watch his gaze shifting about the table as the conversation ebbed and flowed, moving from our wedding plans to movies to current events (but thankfully not politics...Mr. Westerfield always managed to steer the conversation away from that topic whenever it came up). Besides the engagement party, this was really the first time Smike been involved in a large gathering. Maybe he was just trying to pick up on how human social interaction worked.

All in all, the evening passed a lot more pleasantly than I'd thought it would, despite my mother looking wistful over the garlic mashed potatoes. I could tell she wished she could have brought hers, and I had to agree; the catered food was wonderful, but my mother made killer mashed potatoes. Still, it was a small sacrifice, all things considered.

I watched Smike out of the corner of my eye, trying to gauge how much he really was eating. As far as I could tell, he ate a good bit, but only one helping of everything. For myself, visions of that tight-fitting wedding gown haunted me, and I ate the smallest portions I could without my mother noticing and calling me on it.

Things tapered off more or less gracefully, with my Uncle Tim and his family the first to leave. Then one by one everyone else departed, leaving Smike and me to say our final good nights to Mr. Westerfield before climbing back in the BMW and heading back home. I felt a little guilty about the mess we left behind, even though I caught a glimpse of several uniformed women bustling around in the kitchen. Probably they had had to wait for everyone to leave before the cleanup could begin in earnest.

Smike was silent for the first few minutes of the drive. Then he said, "So this is what a family is."

His words startled me a little, but then I realized that of course his only frame of reference was Mike's memories, and Mike's extended family was a lot smaller than mine. "Yes," I replied. "Of course, at the holidays everyone tends to be on their best behavior."

"Still," he said, and hesitated. "It is interesting to see, this bond of blood that people share. Different from what binds the two of us, but..." The words trailed off, as if he were wrestling with a new and unexpected idea.

_What _does_ bind the two of us?_ I thought. _Fear? Coercion? Sex? All of the above? None?_ I didn't want to think about the L-word. Smike had told me he loved me, but I still didn't believe him. He was just using Mike's emotions to try to tighten his hold on me.

At least, that's what I tried to tell myself.

"Did you ever think about having children?" Smike asked abruptly, and I almost choked on the breath mint I'd just fished out of my purse and popped in my mouth.

"Where the hell did that come from?" I demanded.

He shot me a strange sideways glance. "Academic curiosity."

I got the feeling it was more than that, but I worried if I asked any more questions I might get answers I really didn't want to hear. So I just said, "Maybe someday. But not until after I got my career going. These days it just makes sense to wait until you're around thirty."

Again a pause. "And how old are you now?"

"You know I'm twenty-one," I said, wondering why he'd bothered to ask. Of course Mike knew exactly how old I was, so by extension Smike did as well.

"A long time then, as mortals reckon it."

"Not that long," I replied. Even though I'd watched what I ate, I still felt lethargic and tired, and I wasn't really looking forward to dealing with Smike's unwanted attentions once we got home. I shifted in my seat, moving the seatbelt so that it would stop hitting the fullest part of my stomach, then asked, "Is there a point to all this?"

The car rolled to a stop as we came to a four-way intersection, and Smike turned and really looked at me. His expression wasn't easy to read in the dim interior of the car, but I thought I caught a glint in his eyes. Or maybe it was just a reflection from the instrument panel on the dashboard. "Not really," he answered. "It's just that for the first time I've begun to wonder what it would be like to have a child. I never had the opportunity before, you see."

And with that he accelerated away from the stop sign, swiveling his head forward as he did so. My dinner seemed to rise up in my throat, and I forced myself to take a deep breath, then another. _He didn't really mean it_, I told myself. _He's just come up with another new and exciting way to torture you._

_But what if he did?_ asked a small voice inside me. _What then?_

As with so many other things, to that I had no answer.


	13. Observations

Sorry I took so long to update -- this chapter was half done a week ago, but I had the week from hell (work suckage) right before Christmas, and then I got food poisoning over the holidays. Party, party! (Don't ever tell me the number 13 isn't unlucky!) Anyway, thank you for all the reviews, and your continuing patience with my somewhat haphazard update schedule!

* * *

Thirteen: Observations

I waited until Smike slept, deep in his usual post-coital coma. There hadn't been any way to put him off without possibly arousing suspicion, so I'd let him make love to me as I closed my eyes and tried to make myself believe it was Will touching me. Not that the ploy worked very well, but if nothing else Smike's technique had improved a good deal of late. I didn't know whether he'd been studying the _Kama Sutra_ or indulging in Internet porn, and I supposed it didn't really matter. Although some part of my soul rebelled at the thought of a Sauron-possessed Mike using my body in such a way, I did have to admit that it would have felt awfully good if it had been someone else. Anyone else.

But after he was asleep, I slid out of bed and tiptoed into the bathroom, then carefully opened the medicine cabinet door and retrieved the little pink pack of my birth-control pills. At least it appeared that Smike's sudden interest in offspring had come on just this evening, and both the packet in the medicine cabinet and the rest of the pills I'd gotten at Planned Parenthood -- still wrapped in the paper bag in which they'd been sent home with me -- were undisturbed. Still, I couldn't trust him not to steal them or hide them or mess with them in some sneakily undetectable manner. Better to get them out of harm's way.

I still needed to take my one pill for today, so I dry-swallowed it and then hastily shoved the rest of them in the floral cosmetics bag I used for traveling. Probably Smike would never investigate the little case, but I didn't want to take any chances; I pushed it into the farthest corner of the under-sink cabinet and then blocked it with a package of maxi pads. Feminine hygiene products tended to be kryptonite for all males, whether they were displaced Dark Lords or not -- I had a feeling that Smike probably wouldn't go digging back there.

Intellectually I knew that if something did happen to my pills, I could just go to Planned Parenthood and get more, and that even missing a single pill wasn't exactly a recipe for instant pregnancy. Maybe I just wanted to feel as if I were able to exert a bit of control over at least one portion of my life, small as it might have been. Also, Smike hadn't come out and directly said he wanted to get me pregnant right away. No, he'd just done his standard mind-fuck power play of letting an idea float out there and allowing my paranoia to take the concept to its (il)logical conclusion.

More than ever I wanted Will, wanted him to be there to comfort me and tell me everything was going to be all right. Unfortunately, even if I'd had the guts to call him at one in the morning and ask for some support, I knew it wouldn't have done me any good -- he'd told me just before we went our separate ways at Pershing Square that he was going to be out of town until the Tuesday after Thanksgiving, since he planned to fly back to Brookline and spend the holiday with his sister and her family.

So with Will three thousand miles away, I knew I couldn't rely on anyone except myself. Fine. I'd been through tougher spots than this, and although I was feeling shaky and upset at the moment, I knew I'd eventually get through it. Somehow I always did.

Moving quietly through the dark, I made my way back to the bed and slid between the sheets. Smike stirred slightly, but I could tell from the rhythm of his breathing that he was still deeply asleep. Sometimes I got the feeling that you could drop a bomb on his head while he slept, and he still wouldn't wake up. All the better. At least that way he would have no way of knowing what I'd been up to.

I closed my eyes, told myself that Tuesday wasn't that far off, not really, and willed myself into my own private oblivion.

* * *

Actually, Tuesday came faster than I thought it would. Even though I hadn't been looking forward to the long weekend with Smike and I cooped up inside the house, apparently the march of science didn't pause for the holidays. Even though technically the campus was closed on Friday, he still announced he was going in to the lab and departed the house after grabbing his laptop bag and some bottled water.

All the better. I also had things I needed to work on -- the final projects for my Studio Design class were due in a week, and even though I'd been working away faithfully on them throughout the semester, of course there were tons of the inevitable "last bits" that needed to be taken care of before the three sample costumes I had constructed were ready for submission. I hid myself in my studio and hemmed and sewed buttonholes, pulled out the lining from the man's jacket I had made and redid it because I decided I didn't like how it hung, and trimmed two silly but somehow charming Regency bonnets with feathers and ribbons. All these activities kept me safely cloistered away for most of the weekend, since I only emerged from time to time for food and to get some sleep. And other things, of course, Smike being what he was, but I was so used to the sex by then that I could completely forget about it for large blocks of time.

On Monday the contractor called me on my cell phone and informed me that his current project was going over its projected due date, so there was no way he'd be able to start on the master suite remodel until after the first of the year. Typical. I felt mildly irritated that I wouldn't be able to annoy Smike with any extensive work on the house through the holidays, but maybe it was for the best. After all, there were limits to how much even I could stand. At least I could still have the spare bedroom repainted and the floors in the living room/dining room done. Frankly, Smike seemed to have taken everything I'd thrown at him so far with remarkable aplomb, so in the end tearing apart the master bedroom might have had a more negative effect on me than it would on him.

I did find it a little reassuring that even with his supposed "vacation," Smike really hadn't shown much desire to spend a lot of time in my company. Obviously whatever he had going on in the lab was far more interesting than being with me. If it had been anyone else I probably would have been offended, but with the winter holidays looming -- at that point I just had one week of regular classes and then a week of finals before the three-week break -- I was glad to know I wouldn't have to worry about Smike being underfoot the whole time. If I were really lucky, I might not have to deal with him much beyond the requisite family gatherings for Christmas, and then some sort of outing for New Year's. Lisa had started hinting darkly about a party at her new apartment. I wasn't exactly thrilled about dragging Smike to what probably would turn out to be a major booze-fest, but I also knew I couldn't get out of it without offending Lisa. Well, sufficient to the day and all that.

My spirits got a definite lift when Will called me early Tuesday afternoon to inform me he was back in town. He asked if I'd survived Thanksgiving all right, and I assured him I had. I didn't really feel like going into the whole "Sauron wants to reproduce" thing right then on the phone. Besides, Smike hadn't mentioned anything about it since the drive home from his father's house that night, so either he really had brought up the matter just to mess with me, or even he had decided that a baby might be a little bit more than he could handle at the moment.

"What's your schedule like tomorrow afternoon?" he asked.

Luckily Will had caught me on the drive back to San Marino from downtown; I slowed down at the inevitable crush at the 101/110 interchange, then replied, "I've got class until three...so I might be able to make it to Pasadena by about a quarter to four if the traffic isn't too hideous."

"That could work," he said.

"Should I come to your office?" I asked, stomping on the brake as an over-zealous Lexus SUV decided that it really, really needed to be in front of my Beetle at that exact second. If I hadn't been on the phone with a minister, I probably would have cussed the driver out, or at least flipped him off.

Will didn't reply at first, and I pulled the phone away from my ear briefly to make sure that the call hadn't been dropped. But no -- the little bars indicated that I had full cell reception. Then he said, "No, I don't think that's necessary. Do you know a place called Lucky Baldwin's?"

It sounded vaguely familiar. "Is it on Raymond?"

"Fair Oaks, actually," he replied. "The English place."

Oh, right. I'd never been there myself, but since it was located next to one of the city parking garages I utilized on a regular basis, I'd probably walked past the place a dozen times. "I remember where it is now," I told him. "So you want to meet there a little before four?"

"If it's not too much trouble," Will said.

"No trouble," I replied immediately. "Smike doesn't leave the lab until after six most days, so I doubt he'd even notice that I didn't get home on time."

"Excellent. I'll see you then." And with that he hung up.

"OK, bye," I said, to the dead air on the cell phone. I felt mildly irritated and couldn't explain why. After all, it sounded as if Will had called me almost as soon as he had gotten back into town. But his tone had been so...businesslike, as if I were just another item on his to-do list. I tried to tell myself that wasn't fair, that he probably had a millions things to take care of now he was back in Pasadena, and I should just be happy that he'd gotten in contact with me so quickly.

All very logical and probably true, but I still felt as if the whole exchange had been a little off. Maybe he was just jet-lagged or something. Maybe he'd gotten a batch of bad turkey over the holiday. I just didn't know, and I had enough to torture myself with just trying to figure out Smike's motivations without second-guessing Will, too. Why he'd want to meet at some pub-type place instead of the church, I had no idea. Possibly he was worried that if he had someone who obviously wasn't one of his parishioners visiting him too often, people might get suspicious. In that were the case, then I supposed a neutral meeting ground was a good idea.

Who knew? Maybe he just wanted to buy me a drink...

* * *

But when I walked into Lucky Baldwin's the next afternoon, any hopes I might have had of a cozy tête-à-tête over a few pints of Guinness were dashed. Oh, Will was already there, tucked into a corner table on the lower level of the building. Unfortunately, he had someone with him. And that someone was the sort of person who normally I would have crossed the street to avoid. Of indeterminate middle age, the stranger seemed too tall and thin and awkward even when seated, and his thinning fair hair had the sort of tumbleweed look that indicated it had had fingers run through it, and recently.

At least by that point I'd gotten a little better at maintaining a poker face, so I didn't think any of my irritation showed. I just paused at the table, a polite smile fixed on my mouth, and waited for Will to make the introductions.

He seemed unaware of any tension on my part, and said merely, "Oh, Sarah. I want you to meet Rupert Jones, a former -- client."

"That's one way of putting it," the stranger said, in surprisingly upper-class British accents. The cultured voice contrasted wildly with his escapee-from-the-mental-ward appearance. Light blue eyes met mine, and he grinned. "Former possessee, actually."

"Oh," I replied, feeling completely caught off-guard. I mean, how do you respond to a statement like that? To cover my awkwardness, I grabbed a chair and sat down. "Nice to meet you."

The pale gaze sharpened a little, and he said, "Sure about that?"

I raised an eyebrow, and Will said, "Rupert -- "

"Sorry, old man." Rupert looked past me, and added, "If only the bloody barmaid would take the ruddy drinks order -- "

For a second, Will's gaze caught mine, and I saw the brief deepening of the lines around his eyes that usually indicated a secret amusement. I felt my own mouth quirk in response, and said, "I could use a drink."

"A sentiment we all seem to share," Will commented, and then he did smile, just a little.

Luckily the waitress picked up on our vibe, or at least had convinced herself that the party at the table in the corner was now complete. She wandered over, took our order -- Boddingtons for Rupert, a Guinness for Will, and a hard cider for me -- then departed, still with that same aura of airy unconcern, as if getting her customers their drinks in anything resembling a timely fashion was the farthest thing from her mind. Oh, well.

With that out of the way, the three of us were left to stare at one another in awkward silence. Finally, Will said, "You're probably wondering why we're all meeting here."

That was the understatement of the century. I just made an affirmative sound and waited for the explanations.

"My fault, really," Rupert said. "Will rang me up to discuss your case, and as soon as I heard the details, I knew I had to meet you."

Great. So now Will was talking about me to complete strangers? What about minister/client privilege, or whatever it was called? But then I remembered that cryptic comment Will had made at our last meeting about wanting to talk to "someone" about my situation. No doubt Rupert was that someone. Still, having that oblique warning didn't make me like it any better.

"Why?" I asked, not bothering to mask my peevish tone. "Do you do ride-alongs on all of Will's possession cases?"

He actually smiled. "Hardly. But this isn't exactly a run-of-the-mill situation, is it?"

I shook my head, and Will jumped in at that point. "Rupert used to be a theoretical physicist. So you see why I thought he would be a good person to consult."

"'Used to be'?" I echoed. "What happened?"

Will and Rupert exchanged a glance, and Will replied, appearing to choose his words with caution, "I did tell you that sometimes there are -- negative effects following a possession -- "

"Barking mad," Rupert cut in cheerfully. "Not that anyone said it to my face, of course. Too polite for that. But sacked is sacked. 'Unable to fulfill the mental requirements of the position,' is what they said in the letter, I think. At any rate, the university no longer required my services. So here I am."

I wondered what sort of strings had been pulled to get an ex-theoretical physicist whose mental wiring wasn't making all the connections to live on a semi-permanent basis here in Southern California. Not that it really mattered, I supposed. The state was already full of lunatics -- what difference did one more make?

"So..." I said, trying to direct the conversation back to my initial question.

"So," Rupert went on, still with that aura of half-deranged glee, "when Will here said he had a case of possession unlike any other he'd ever seen, and that the person being possessed was a young man whose field of study was quantum mechanics -- well, of course you can see how that would immediately draw my attention."

"Um, I suppose so," I replied.

If he found my distinct lack of enthusiasm at all off-putting, Rupert certainly showed no sign of it. He folded his long, thin hands on the tabletop and said, "I hear your boyfriend is possessed by a fictional character."

I opened my mouth to correct him, to point out that Smike was my fiancé, not my boyfriend, then thought, _Why bother?_ Instead, I crossed my arms, gave him a frown, and answered, "I'd hardly call Sauron fictional, since I have evidence that he really does exist."

"Oh, but he is fictional, in the sense that he's known to this world through a work of fiction."

At that point Will seemed to take pity on me, because he leaned forward slightly and said, "Rupert doesn't mean to imply that Sauron doesn't exist, Sarah. He just means that his point of origin is very different from the other demonic presences that people on this world have previously encountered."

Resisting the urge to mutter, _Then why didn't he say so in the first place?_ I raised an eyebrow and waited for him to go on.

"Because of that, this case is unique." Will cleared his throat and added, "Rupert most particularly wanted to know more about Sauron's current research."

Naturally. I was about to reply when the waitress finally showed up with our drinks. Once that had been sorted out -- she placed my cider in front of Rupert and gave me Will's Guinness, and we silently traded drinks after she had left -- I said, "I don't know a lot of the details. He keeps his computer locked down all the time, and even if I could access his files, it's not as if I'd be able to understand anything in them."

"But he did tell you about the tachyon-measuring device," Rupert cut in.

"Well, yes," I replied. "But that doesn't mean I know how it works, or even why it's so important."

Rupert made an exasperated sound, then retreated to the safety of his beer after Will shot him a warning look. "We're not all quantum physicists," Will said, his tone mild but with an undercurrent of steel.

"Erm...quite," Rupert admitted. After helping himself to a healthy swallow of Boddingtons, he fastened me with those slightly disconcerting pale eyes of his. "Let us lay aside for the moment the fact that this Sauron-possessed friend of yours -- "

"Smike," I said.

Rupert blinked.

"I call him Smike -- shorthand, you know, for Sauron and Mike."

He blinked again, then said, "Oh. Well. Then, laying aside the fact that this Smike person has accomplished something no other person on this planet has managed so far, what concerns me is that for some reason he's apparently found a tachyon stream in your backyard."

Sipping at my cider allowed me enough of a pause that I was able to avoid screaming out loud. I had that half-panicked, half-frustrated feeling I used to get in my trig class -- you know, that sinking sensation that you should be getting this stuff, but for some reason it's just not getting processed properly by the old gray matter. Taking a breath, I asked, "And why is a tachyon stream significant?"

"For one thing, it means the fabric of the space-time continuum is severely warped in that one particular spot in your yard."

"And?"

He ran a hand through his hair, thus completing the destruction that former passes had already begun. "The presence of tachyons indicates that perhaps in some way the distortion is strong enough that it could allow some...leakage."

"Leakage," I repeated. I gave Will a sideways look, and he just shook his head slightly, a movement I interpreted to mean, _Just hear him out…and don't interrupt_. So I sipped again at my cider, and waited for Rupert to go on.

"Leakage that would allow you to fall into another world, a parallel dimension, if you prefer the Star Trek parlance. All one and the same." The pale eyes grew somewhat dreamy, and he added, "You're a very lucky girl, to have seen what you've seen, experienced a world that most people think only exists in the imagination."

_Lucky?_ I thought. _To have been taken prisoner, entered a doomed love affair, watched my lover die before my eyes? Lucky, to have been raped by Gorendil's murderer, to have died so that Middle Earth could be free again?_ I wasn't sure "lucky" was the word I would have used. But I knew Will wouldn't appreciate me starting an argument, so I only said, "Actually, it looked a lot like the films."

"Aha!" Rupert burst out, so unexpectedly that even Will jumped a bit. "That's precisely what I mean."

"Barking mad" didn't begin to describe it. I shot Will another one of those half-lashed looks, as if to say, _How much longer do I have to put up with this crap?_

At least he came to my rescue...sort of. "I'm not sure I follow you, Rupert."

"It's all interconnected," Rupert replied. He moved his glass slightly, and ran his finger through the condensation on the scarred wood of the tabletop, making a larger ring from the moisture his beer had left behind. "We see time and space as linear, because that's how our minds work, but they're not. Everything connects...everything has an impact on everything else. We can't put the chicken before the egg or vice versa, because one coming before the other has everything to do with observation."

Briefly I wondered if I should be taking notes. I had begun to feel as if I was back in one of my science classes. Then I thought, _The hell with it_, and drank some more cider. Will was frowning, as if he were putting everything in some sort of mental recorder for playback at a later date.

"Observation," I repeated. Then a bit of my research on wikipedia came to my aid. "Um...Schrödinger's cat?"

Rupert actually beamed at me. You'd have thought I'd just remembered his birthday or something. "Very good. Is the cat alive, or is it dead? Does it matter, until it's observed and recorded by a second party? Does Minas Tirith really look the way it did in the recent films, or did it just appear that way to you because that was how you expected it to look?"

My brief bit of brilliance apparently deserted me, and I was back in "my brain is about to explode" territory. "Uh -- but isn't something what it is regardless of who's looking at it?"

"Of course not." Rupert jabbed a bony finger in Will's upper arm. Will started a bit, then raised an eyebrow.

"Was that necessary?"

"Will here," Rupert continued, ignoring Will's question, "is a perfect example. Or I should say, his counterpart in Middle Earth."

Apparently Will had shared pretty much everything about our past with Rupert. Thank God I hadn't gone into any detail, or no doubt the crazy physicist would have known how many times a week Gorendil and I had had sex. "What about him?" I asked.

"Your seeing this Lord of the Nazgûl, this Gorendil person, as the man he once was, and not the wraith everyone else in Middle Earth saw, just supports the fact that observation of a thing is key. Whether it's because your own expectations were unlike those of the regular denizens of Middle Earth, or because you came from a universe that allowed you to see things on a completely different level, I can't be sure. But you observed Gorendil to be a man, just as you did with Sauron. And you saw Minas Tirith and Isengard and all the other locales there to be the very similar to those in the films, simply because that's what you expected to see."

"So they're really not like that at all?" I demanded.

Rupert shrugged. "Not necessarily. Perhaps the images in the films echoed the real places...or perhaps the real places took on the appearance of things in the films."

"So there's no such thing as an absolute reality?" I asked. Maybe I should have ordered something a little stronger than cider. Maybe you had to be really, really drunk to understand any of this crap.

Or crazy.

"Of course not," he answered.

"Fine," I gritted. With my luck, Rupert would next launch into a discussion over how many angels really could dance on the head of a pin. "So it could be live, or it could be Memorex...does any of this help with actually getting Sauron out of Mike's body?"

Rupert gave me another one of those loopy grins. "No, not really. But it _is_ fascinating, isn't it?"

I glared at Will, and he said hastily, "We're getting to that, Sarah." He glanced over at Rupert. "Right, Rupert?"

The physicist lifted his shoulders under his threadbare shirt. "Well, I don't have any absolute recommendations, but -- " After getting another warning look from Will, Rupert said, "I do have several theories."

"Oh, fabulous," I muttered, after sneaking a quick glance at my watch. Five o'clock. I could probably afford about a half-hour more of listening to this nonsense before I had to hit the road so I could beat Smike home.

"It all goes in circles," Rupert said. "Although even that analogy isn't correct, because of course we're discussing far more than two dimensions here -- "

"Circles will do for now," Will put in.

"Will here," Rupert continued. "Fascinating case, really. Evil undead wraith in one world, responsible for the deaths of how many, and minister here, dedicating his life to helping others. Reaction? Or cause?"

Will and I exchanged a puzzled look. "Come again?" he said.

"Are you leading a life of service here because of who you were in that alternate dimension? Or did your utter blamelessness on this plane cause you to swing back too far in the other direction in Middle Earth?" Rupert drained the last of his Boddingtons and smiled. "Impossible to say for sure, but you can't really discount either theory."

That was more than a little creepy. I glanced over at Will, who had an abstracted frown pulling at his eyebrows. But other than that he appeared remarkably placid. Well, if he could handle it, then so could I. "OK," I said. "That's an interesting...theory. But it doesn't help much with Sauron."

"Well, it does, actually." Rupert tapped a finger against the side of his empty pint glass and gave it a rueful look. No doubt he was hoping the waitress would reappear, but it seemed as if she'd been sucked into a parallel dimension as well, since she'd completely vanished from the scene.

"How so?" Will asked.

"You defeated him in Middle Earth, Sarah," Rupert replied. "Oh, a Pyrrhic victory, I suppose, since you had to die to get rid of him, but still, that accomplishment set up a ripple in the field. A certain inclination toward success, if you will."

"Clear as mud," I said gloomily.

"Since you got rid of him once, it stands to reason you'll do so again. You needn't worry about how -- just believe that it will happen."

"Power of positive thinking?" I asked, and didn't bother to keep the sarcastic edge from my words.

Surprisingly, it was Will who replied. "You might be amazed by what people have accomplished through positive thinking, Sarah. I've seen cancer cured, people awakened from comas, chronic illnesses gone as if they never existed. Don't discount the force of the human will."

Oh, easy for him to say. He was a minister, after all -- wasn't "positive thinking" here just a euphemism for prayer, or at least belief in some sort of higher force? I'd always been the sort of person who pretty much only believed in what I could actually see. Or at least I had been, up until a few months ago. "Fine," I said. "I'll just sit around believing and see where that gets me."

Apparently unruffled by my tone, Rupert said, "You'd be surprised where that gets you, actually."

I wanted to tell him that obviously it hadn't done wonders for him, as whatever horrific experience he'd gone through had rendered him incapable of holding the position for which he'd been trained, but that would have been hitting below the belt. In his oblique way, Rupert was trying to help. If I couldn't comprehend everything he had told me, whose fault was that? Unfortunately, the one person who could probably have explained these things in a way I might have understood was the last one I could possibly confide in -- Smike.

"One other thing, though," Rupert added, and again that manic grin pulled at his thin lips.

"What?" I asked warily.

He looked from Will to me and then back at Will again. "It's good that you're working together on this, because again that parallels what you did in Middle Earth. Have to believe there'll be a better outcome here, of course -- got the short end of the stick on the first go-round, didn't you, old man?"

Will managed a very sour-looking smile.

"Best chance for success, though, is to try to match conditions as closely as you can. No Cracks of Doom to push Smike into, unfortunately -- and I know Sarah here doesn't want to harm Mike if that can be avoided."

Good thing he'd mentioned that, or I would have wanted to push Rupert into a volcanic pit myself. No matter what any of the rest of us had done, Mike was the innocent bystander here.

"Exactly what are you driving at, Rupert?" Will inquired, and I could hear a definite edge to his voice.

"Simplest thing in the world, actually," Rupert replied, and drove a sharp elbow into Will's ribcage. "Love makes the world go 'round and all that."

Oh, he couldn't... I got the sudden urge to sink beneath the table but somehow managed to stay upright.

"Surprised you haven't jumped at the chance already," the physicist continued, apparently not noticing my raging blush or Will's stony silence. "Pretty girl like her. You're a lucky man." Finally Rupert paused, then glanced at Will and me. "Need me to spell it out?"

"Please don't," I murmured, but it was too late. Rupert had already announced,

"To improve your chances of success, you two must become lovers again."


	14. Memories

Well, I HOPE the alert system is fixed. Sigh.

I've been feeling kind of blocked, and this story is easier to write than my Snape fic, so it looks as if this one's going to get updated first. Casting note: If this were a movie, Rupert would be played by Bill Nighy. ;-)

* * *

Fourteen: Memories

If there had been any mercy in the world, the earth would have swallowed me up at that moment, or maybe Pasadena could have been hit by a falling meteor. Or at least the waitress would have returned to get Rupert his second damn Boddingtons. Anything to interrupt the horrible silence that fell after the crazy physicist made his pronouncement.

But of course none of that happened.

Instead, I kept my eyes studiously fixed on the tabletop, as if the pattern of scratches and scars I saw on the battered wooden surface was the most important thing in my world. I heard Will say, in the flat tones of someone trying really hard not to sound angry,

"I fail to see how that would change things."

"Of course it would!" Rupert insisted. "Patterns always try to reassert themselves. Why else would you two have even been brought together here in this world, if not to reinforce your connection?"

Somehow I found my voice. I looked up from the table and glared into Rupert's pale, mad eyes. "We're people, not patterns," I said.

He paused, a slight frown creasing the wrinkle-etched skin between his fair eyebrows. "What?"

Rage at this impossible situation surged up in me. I didn't care if this whack job had helped Will out in previous cases -- all he'd done here was make things go from bad to worse. Hard as it had been, I'd really tried to dance around the issue of my shared past with Will's alter ego. This was a different world, different circumstances. I'd made myself believe I could deal with the unrequited feelings of attraction I felt for Will Gordon. But how the hell could I continue to do so with Rupert trying to play quantum matchmaker?

"Maybe this is just a game to you," I snapped. "Maybe it's just some really fun and unusual exercise in physics. I don't know -- I don't know you. But this is my life, and I am really _sick_ of people fucking with it!" After that outburst I grabbed my purse and pushed my chair back away from the table, then stood. "Thanks for the drink, Will," I added, and rushed toward the nearest door, not giving him a chance to reply.

Of course, my grand, furious exit would have been a lot more impressive if I hadn't been forced to wait for the elevator in the damn parking garage. As I stood there, fuming, I saw Will approach, then stop a few feet away from me. For a second he just waited, looking down into my face is if to gauge how angry I really was, and then he said, "I'm sorry."

"Yeah, me, too," I replied. Then I dragged my gaze away from his and glared at the elevator. How long could it possibly take for the goddamn thing to come down two levels? "I'm sorry your friend is such an asshole."

"He was completely out of line, I agree." For a second Will's mouth thinned, and I saw on his face a flash of the look that Gorendil himself had worn just before he lopped off Denethor's head. Good thing there weren't any flaming swords in the vicinity.

The wash of anger flowed away as quickly as it had come, and I just felt tired. I wanted to go home and sleep for a hundred years. But home was no refuge, of course. Smike would be waiting for me there -- or returning soon from the lab at the very least. "It's not your fault," I said, after an uncomfortable pause. "I mean, it's not as if you held a gun to his head and made him say any of that stuff."

"True, but that still doesn't excuse it."

At that moment the elevator finally decided to appear. The door opened, and a couple of giggling tweeners emerged. They looked from me to Will and back again, then giggled even harder as they dashed past us out into the courtyard area that backed up to the parking garage pedestrian exit.

Well, great that someone found my life so amusing. I probably was fewer than ten years older than those girls who had just darted past me, but at the moment I felt about a hundred and two. Without bothering to reply to Will's comment, I stepped inside the elevator and pressed the button for the third level. To my surprise, he followed me in.

"It's all right," I said. "I'm pretty sure I'm not going to get mugged in broad daylight."

"It's not daylight anymore," he pointed out.

That much was true. Some time during our lovely little meeting inside Lucky Baldwin's, the afternoon had moved on to evening, and the half-overcast sky above the parking structure had turned a moody lavender. It had gotten colder, too; the thin silk cardigan I wore over my tank top felt suddenly inadequate.

I didn't know what to say. Obviously Will felt guilty about having Rupert meet with me -- as well he should -- but what was I supposed to do? Tell him all was forgiven? Say that we could just pretend those awkward words had never been spoken? Inform him that it was OK, and that I'd come to think of him as just a friend? At that point I didn't think I was capable of doing any of those things.

Thank God no one got on at the intervening floors, or the interminable elevator ride would have felt even more endless. But eventually we stopped at the third floor of the parking garage where I'd left my car. Still in silence, I got out of the elevator and headed up to the rooftop level; when I'd arrived, the structure had been almost full, and that was the only place I'd been able to find a parking spot.

Up there the wind hit me as soon as I emerged from the ramp that led up to that level, and I hugged my arms against myself, glad that I would soon be inside my little car with the heat turned on. Will followed along behind me; I didn't know if it was guilt or misplaced chivalry that had led him to accompany me to my car, but right then I really wished I could just be left alone.

My car was parked down at the end of one row, under a light that was just now beginning to stir to life. The weird orange-ish bulb made my bright blue Beetle look a muddy shade of purple for some reason. I paused by the driver-side door and turned to face Will. "Look," I said, "I appreciate your concern and everything, but I just want to go home. It's cold, I'm tired, and I don't really feel like talking anymore."

Will gazed down at me, his face impassive. As had been so often the case with Gorendil, I couldn't guess what he might be thinking. Then he said quietly, "I dreamed about you."

The metal of the key ring I held suddenly felt freezing against my fingers. "What?"

He frowned for a second, and replied, "When I was in Brookline, at my sister's. But it didn't feel like a dream, somehow."

Not knowing what else to say, I asked, "What was it?"

A lift of the shoulders under his dark shirt. "I saw a room I'd never seen before -- with high ceilings and a stone floor. There was a window with diamond panes, and you sat in front of it. You wore a gray gown, and it looked as if you were doing embroidery on one of those standing frames you see sometimes in antique stores." His expression softened ever so slightly. "The sun came through the window and caught in your hair."

Joy came then, welling up from some forgotten place in my soul. A tremor went through me, but whether it was from the sudden realization that he must be starting to remember some things, or just because of the chill breeze that swept across the roof of the parking structure, I wasn't sure. "That wasn't a dream," I said quietly. "It was a memory."

The gray eyes met mine. I wasn't sure what I saw in them. Confusion? Doubt?

"That was our home in Minas Tirith," I went on, my voice growing stronger with each word. "That was the sitting room I used, and the embroidery frame Araneth found for me. I used to sit there and work when you were up at the citadel attending to your business."

Will's eyebrows drew together. I could almost see him trying to grasp onto those forgotten memories as he attempted to decide whether the random images he'd begun to see really were recollections from a previous life, and not simply traces of half-remembered dreams.

For myself, his description of the sitting room that had been mine for our brief stay in Minas Tirith brought so many of those memories flooding back. Araneth, with her quick smiles and endless gossip. Gandalf's piercing blue eyes. Arwen's gentle voice telling me, _Sometimes the blade must be returned to the forge several times before it is truly tempered._

Was this my final forging, then? Had I been forced to suffer everything I'd gone through so far in order to be ready for the final test?

The sound of a car engine revving up at the other end of the rooftop parking area startled both of us. I looked over my shoulder and saw a dark late-model sedan head down the ramp into the next level of the garage. Probably the driver hadn't even spotted Will and me as we stood half in shadow in the far corner.

Finally Will spoke. "I'm not sure I want to remember."

That comment made me lift my chin and frown at him. "Why not?"

"Why not?" he repeated, sounding incredulous. "Would you want to remember that you'd been someone -- some_thing_ -- that had been responsible for the deaths of thousands of people? A man who'd given up his mortality in exchange for power? A man who -- "

"A man who loved me, and died trying to save Middle Earth," I cut in. While I could understand his revulsion, I had to make Will understand that the Nazgûl lord he had once been had at least found some measure of grace before he died.

Since he appeared unconvinced, however, I added, "You're a minister, right? Isn't one of your big selling points forgiveness and all that?"

His eyes narrowed slightly. "Possibly, but -- "

"But what?" I interrupted. "Either forgiveness is possible, or it isn't. You tell me -- I don't hang out in church much."

Will sighed then, and said, "Of course it is. But sometimes forgiving yourself is the most difficult thing of all."

I saw his point -- God knows I'd beaten myself up about enough stuff over the years that other people had long since forgotten -- but I didn't want him to get caught in that trap. "I don't know much about karma, but I think it means we're supposed to learn from our past, doesn't it? To try to make things better on this go-round?"

My comment only elicited a bitter-sounding laugh. "According to Rupert, this go-round, as you put it, might not be the life that came after the one I had in Middle Earth, but the one that caused it. How does karma work then?"

"Well, Rupert's crazier than a shit-house rat," I said frankly. "Do you really want to take advice from someone like that?"

"It's proven sound in the past."

_Then you must've just gotten really lucky_, I thought, but I remained silent. It had to be fairly obvious to Will what my opinion of Rupert was. A particularly strong gust of wind caught at my hair, and I pushed it back from my face while trying not to shiver.

"I'm not pretending to have all the answers," I said. "Or any of them, really. So I don't know what to say to that. I have to believe, though, that you're who you are in this world because of who you were in that one. Have you helped people? Have you made a difference in people's lives?"

The silence that followed those questions stretched out for so long that I began to wonder if he were going to answer at all.

"I've been told that," Will replied at last.

"Well, then," I said.

He made an impatient gesture. "This was a lot easier when I didn't really believe any of it."

For some reason his comment really irritated me. I crossed my arms and glared at him. "And just when was that?"

His eyes shifted away from mine. "Right up to the point when Agent Mills told us the material in your gown couldn't have come from this world."

I should have expected that, but his words felt like a slap in the face. "So up until then you were just humoring me? Doing a favor for your buddies, the Morrisons?"

At least he had the guts to look straight back at me when he replied, "Basically, yes."

By then I'd spent so much time being angry I didn't have the energy to summon up the rage I thought I should feel. Instead, I asked, "So I was just some crazy girl with a weird fetish for Episcopal ministers or something?"

"Well, I wouldn't go so far as to say that -- "

"Then what?" I demanded. "I'd really like to know what you were thinking all that time."

The wind caught in his hair and ruffled it back from his brow. In the odd half-light cast by the parking garage's fixtures, I couldn't really decipher his expression. Then again, this version of Gorendil was almost as good at the old poker face as his previous incarnation. "I knew you were in some kind of trouble," he said quietly. "I see too many people in difficult situations on a daily basis not to realize that. But even with the work I'd done for the Morrisons, I'd certainly never encountered anything like this before. After all, we were talking about fictional characters here, not beings whose existence had at least been documented in religious texts or earthly tradition."

From his perspective, I suppose he had a point. After all, if one of my friends had come up to me and tried to tell me he or she had just spent a couple of months roaming around Narnia or Oz, I probably would have called the guys in the white coats. So how could I have really expected Will to believe me from the outset, even if he had said he would help? It still angered me, though, that he'd gone along with my story while thinking I had to have at least one or two screws loose.

"But after that?" I persisted.

Another one of those bitter-sounding half laughs. "Well, I couldn't really refute something established by the best crime lab in the country, could I? I had to believe it, whether I wanted to or not." His mouth thinned a little, and he added, "Needless to say, I walked away from that meeting with my head seriously spinning. Eileen -- my sister -- could tell something was bothering me the second I walked off the plane, but of course I couldn't tell her what the problem was. I kept thinking, _Sarah was really there. She really did see these things and experience them, and if that much is true, then the rest of it must be as well_." He shook his head. "As you might expect, that put something of a damper on my Thanksgiving. Not to mention the fact that the dreams started that same night...and the one with you in it was the only pleasant one, unfortunately."

I wanted to ask him what else he had seen, but I guessed that he had already shared far more than he wanted to. "So finally starting to believe broke down some barrier, is that it?"

"It must be. I can't explain it otherwise, because I never had any of these dreams before this. Hell, I didn't have a flicker of recognition when I read the books or saw the films. I was entertained, but that was about it." He smiled ruefully. "'Entertained' -- joke was on me, I guess. Although I'd still like to know how I managed to live an entire life in the span between the time Sauron killed my other self and you came back here."

That question had been bothering me for some time, but no doubt Rupert would have some other far-fetched quantum explanation for discrepancies in the timeline. I started to say as much, but Will put up a hand.

"I think I've had about as much Rupert as I can stomach for one day," he said. "Besides, I left enough cash behind for him to order another pint of Boddingtons, just to make sure he wouldn't try to follow the two of us." This time the smile that lifted his lips looked almost genuine. "No greater love, and all that."

I found myself grinning back at him, despite myself. "Well, I guess it's good to know that people can be predictable when you need them to."

His own smile faded, though, as he watched me carefully. "And now I'm not quite sure how to proceed, Rupert's crazy suggestions aside."

Of course I knew exactly what he was trying to say, in that cautious way of his. How much did he really remember? Probably not everything, but enough to make things even more awkward for the two of us. Not knowing what else to say, I commented, "Well, I'm assuming we're still a go for the whole Sauron-removal thing."

Will actually chuckled. "That's about all I am certain of, at this point."

"So if you remember some things, would you -- " I broke off then, realizing how horrible and idiotic I must sound. As much as I wanted him, now probably wasn't the best time to discuss pursuing the relationship once more.

Unfortunately, I hadn't stopped my big mouth quickly enough. "So you agree with Rupert?" Will asked, his face turning expressionless again.

"'Agree' is an awfully strong word in this case," I began, then hesitated. "If I say I want to be with you, it's not because I think it will help us get rid of Sauron any more easily. It's just that -- well, I still care for you. For him. For -- " God, once the words were out of my mouth they sounded even worse than I had imagined.

Voice carefully neutral, Will inquired, "Have you ever stopped to think of all the difficulties anything between the two of us would involve?"

Normally, I wouldn't have considered such a question to be particularly encouraging. However, he hadn't laughed in my face or told me I was crazy. In this situation, that was about the best I could hope for. I cleared my throat. "Difficulties?"

"You're engaged," he said.

I responded immediately. "Forcible engagement. I don't love him, after all." That was the truth, wasn't it? For all the little glimmers of kindness or the brief instances where I thought I could see Mike's own personality peeking out from beneath Sauron's, I didn't care for him. I wanted to save Mike, but wanting to rescue someone was not the same as loving him.

Will seemed to consider that for a moment. Then he said, "I'm forty-six years old -- I'm old enough to be your father."

My response was automatic. "My father is fifty-three."

That reply elicited the familiar eyebrow tilt. "You do have an answer for everything, don't you, Sarah?"

"I try to," I said. Besides, I hardly thought the age difference mattered. If I hadn't cared with Gorendil, who had been thousands of years older than I, why should a measly quarter-century bother me? At any rate, we were in Southern California, land of the trophy wife, where a man with a much younger wife or girlfriend barely rated a second glance.

The wind gusted again, and this time I couldn't quite hide my shiver.

"You're cold," Will said at once. "We shouldn't be standing out here and having this discussion anyway."

He was right, I supposed, but I didn't want to stop here. Not when we were so close. After all, he hadn't yet said that pursuing a relationship with me was impossible. More importantly, he hadn't said that he didn't want to.

"So what should we be doing?" I asked.

Will didn't reply for a moment, but instead just stood there, staring down into my face. I didn't try to look away. Instead, I gazed back up at him, meeting his eyes, as if I could somehow force him to remember everything, to recall how wonderful it had been between the two of us before Sauron had ruined everything.

The dark lashes dropped, and I thought I saw a spasm cross his features. He murmured something that sounded like, "God help me," right before he stepped toward me, then reached out and pulled me into his arms.

His touch felt the same, as did the feel of his lips as he pressed his mouth against mine. I nestled up against him, feeling the strength of his frame, the power in those arms as they wrapped around me. Once thing was very different, though -- I could sense the rise and fall of his chest, practically hear his heart beating. And the lips that locked against mine were warm as Gorendil's had never been. Still, I felt in his touch everything I thought I had lost, and I clung to him, refusing to let the kiss end, wanting this moment to last forever just in case it never happened again.

But in the end we all have to breathe. Finally Will and I broke apart, both of us gasping as if we'd run up all three flights of stairs to get to my car instead of using the elevator. I felt dizzy, my body thrumming with desire and almost overcome by joy. _He kissed me_, I thought. _He remembers -- he wants me --_

His next words were like being hit with a bucket of cold water. "I should never have done that."

"Why?" I demanded. "You wanted it as badly as I did -- I could tell."

"Just because I wanted it doesn't make it right," he replied. His jaw tensed, and he added, "No matter what you might say, you're young enough to be my daughter, and you came to me for assistance, not -- "

"Bullshit," I said rudely, and was gratified to see his eyes widen a bit, as if my words had shocked a little reality back into him. "I've been wanting you since the second I first turned around and saw you in the restaurant at the Bonaventure -- even though at first I was afraid you were a Catholic priest. If that didn't stop me, why would any of this other stuff?"

Will shook his head. "Still, even though the engagement is a sham, you're still involved with someone else, aren't you? Or is your relationship with Sauron nonphysical?"

I wanted to lie, but knew I couldn't. Not trusting myself to speak, I merely shook my head.

"So you see," he said, even though at that moment I didn't see anything at all. Was he really worried about me cheating on _Smike_, for God's sake?

That notion finally got my mouth moving. "Look, Will," I said desperately, "if anything, I've been cheating on you with Smike all these months. He's forcing me, don't you get it? That's not a real relationship! I never stopped loving you, not for one moment."

"You never stopped loving Gorendil, you mean."

"What?"

The grim smile returned to Will's lips -- those lips that had so recently been pressed up against mine. "You love the man I might have been, in another world. Not the man I am now. You hardly know me."

_But I do_, I wanted to protest. _I know every expression, every movement. I know what your laugh sounds like, and that you're the only man who ever knew the exact right place to kiss me on my neck_. I realized then, however, that beyond those sorts of physical things I really knew next to nothing about William Gordon. Where he'd gone to school, how many brothers and sisters he had, even what sort of music he liked or what his favorite food was.

Every protest I could think of to make suddenly seemed foolish. "You're right," I admitted. "But I do know one thing."

His expression turned guarded. "What?" he asked, although I guessed from the look on his face that he probably knew what I was about to say.

The car keys had remained in my hand all this time. I inserted the key in the lock and turned it. There was no point in prolonging this -- Will had kissed me, but he still wasn't willing to admit that we could have any future together. I had to let it go for now, but I also wanted to make sure I got in the last word. As he watched, I opened the car door, then said, "I will love you until the day I die." And with that I got in, slammed the door shut behind me, and started the engine.

He made no move to stop me. He merely stood there and watched as I backed the car out, then screeched away toward the exit ramp. And he continued to stand there and watch until I turned the corner and was gone.

Maybe it was only my imagination, but in that final glimpse of him in my rearview mirror, I could have sworn I saw him clench his hands into fists, as if he were willing himself to stay in place, to keep himself from running after me. At least, that was what I told myself.

I didn't want to believe that he had willingly let me go.


	15. Inclinations

Sorry about the delay in posting this -- I've been dealing with massive writer's block lately, stemming from a car accident (not my fault) and all the fallout that resulted from it. But I've got a new car now and things are finally starting to settle down, so I think I'm back on track. (You think you've been ignored...try being one of the unlucky people who are reading my Snape fic!) Thanks for all the reviews and support -- they mean more to me than you can possibly know!

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Fifteen: Inclinations

I wanted to cry, but I wouldn't let myself. The clock on my car's dashboard told me that it was almost six, and I worried that Smike would be home by the time I got there; I couldn't risk red eyes and a puffy nose. Allergy season had already passed us by, so I knew I couldn't use hay fever as an excuse for any residual signs of a weeping fit.

Thinking about Smike led me to realize I hadn't planned anything for dinner. Although eating was about the last thing I felt like doing at that point, I knew I had to come up with something. So I pulled into the parking lot of my local Vons, scooped up one of their ready-made roasted chicken dinners, and then headed on home from there. Thank God for overworked moms and all the nifty timesaving items grocery stores have come up with to cater to them. Otherwise, Smike and I probably would have been subsisting completely on takeout -- and my extremely infrequent forays into home cooking -- for the past few months.

Sure enough, his car was already parked in the garage. Of course he couldn't have taken this night to work late in the lab. I gathered up my book bag and the grocery bag that contained our dinner, then paused for a moment in the driver's seat. _Breathe_, I told myself. _Forget about what just happened. You can deal with all that later._

Not for the first time I felt relieved that at least Smike couldn't read minds, but just because he lacked telepathic skills didn't mean he couldn't take one look at me and know I'd been up to something. I glanced in the rearview mirror, but although I looked a little pale, there didn't seem to be any telltale evidence of that one tortured kiss Will and I had shared.

If I waited any longer, the food would start to get cold. Stifling a sigh, I got out of the car, hit the button to close the garage door behind me, and headed into the house.

I got about three feet in the front door before I noticed that something looked different. For a second I couldn't figure out exactly what, and then I realized it was because all the drapes had been hung up and the tacky newspaper I'd taped to the windows to give us some measure of privacy had been taken down.

Now, I'd been planning to take care of that project at some point -- over the long Thanksgiving weekend I'd found some spare time to quickly run hems and casings for the curtain rods in all that lovely embroidered silk I bought, and I'd found some gorgeous antique bronze rods to hang them from. But the finished drapes had gotten dumped across the bed in the spare room until I could find the time to put up the rods myself or maybe call in someone from Handyman Connection to do it for me.

"Like it?" Smike asked, materializing next to the door of his study.

I turned to stare at him. The grocery bag that held our dinner dangled, unheeded, from my right hand. "Did _you_ do this?"

"Yes," he replied, then came down the hallway and plucked the bag from my fingers before it could slide down onto the floor. "The lab got shut down because a work crew out on California accidentally cut the electrical conduit that feeds into the building. It should be back online tomorrow, but I had the afternoon free." He frowned, looked at me a little more closely, and asked again, "Do you like it?"

My brain cells finally decided to start firing again, and I looked around the living room a second time. It was amazing what a difference those lengths of wine-colored silk and their delicate embroidered patterns made in the space -- they woke up the muted tones of the new sofas and brought an added vibrancy to the antique Persian rug on the floor. "It's gorgeous," I said at last. I had no idea that Mike -- or Sauron, by extension -- knew anything about handling a power drill. Then again, none of my previous conversations with Mike had included tips on home improvement.

"I wanted to surprise you," he said.

Well, "surprise" was probably an understatement. I was shocked, both by the fact that Smike had been able to accomplish something like this on his own and the idea that he would even want to. What was the point? I would have gotten around to it eventually. Then I realized he had to have been home for most of the afternoon in order to tackle the project -- the same afternoon that had culminated in that disastrous kiss with Will Gordon. A wave of guilt washed over me, even though some logical part of my brain tried to tell me that I had no reason to feel guilty for kissing Will. It wasn't as if I owed any sort of loyalty to Smike, right?

Well, I could try to tell myself that. I certainly shouldn't have cared whether I was faithful to Sauron or not, but there was a reason I called him "Smike," after all -- both Sauron's and Mike's personalities seemed to be merging, twisting around each other in a knotty spiral that had begun to rival a strand of DNA in its complexity. While I somehow doubted that Sauron would have cared whether or not the living room had drapes, probably Mike did. More to the point, he knew that I cared, so by extension he did. And obviously he exerted enough influence on the part of Sauron that lurked inside him to spend a few hours performing a task that couldn't have been all that easy to handle on his own. Oh, sure, it wasn't as if he had retiled the bathroom or installed a hot tub in the backyard. But I'd watched my parents put up new curtains in our own living room a few years back, and there's more involved than you might think -- measuring, making sure things are level, getting the fabric to hit exactly the correct height above the floor.

So OK, he'd done something that required a decent amount of time and exertion, all supposedly for me. How could I know for sure that Smike had hung the curtains simply to make me happy? Maybe he was just playing the nice card again, trying to dupe me into believing he cared for something besides himself. How could I ever know for sure what his motivations really were?

I stood there and looked at his handiwork, then got a mental image of Smike moving a ladder around the room as he went from window to window. The lengths of fabric couldn't have been that easy to deal with on his own -- they were pretty bulky, and he would have had to pay attention to what he was doing or risk hanging the damn things inside out. And while he'd been working away, I'd sneaked off to meet Will in a bar so we could plan how to drive Sauron out of this dimension...and let's not forget the whole kiss debacle.

It was all too much. I tried to tell myself that Sauron was the enemy, damn it, that he'd taken over Mike's body and ruined my life and murdered Gorendil -- but I kept thinking of how Mike's personality must be trying to assert itself, that it was Mike who had done this for me, that Mike loved me if nothing else. An awful tightness grew in my chest, and I knew the worst was about to happen.

I burst into tears.

Smike looked understandably alarmed. "Don't you like it?"

"I love it!" I sobbed.

Of course that reply did nothing to improve the situation. He shifted his weight uncomfortably from one foot to the other, then set the bag that held our dinner down on the floor. I continued to cry stormily, and as horrible it might have been for me to break down like that in front of Smike, part of me only felt an overwhelming sense of relief. All the months of holding everything in had finally gotten the better of me. I should have known that one day the dam would burst.

The next thing I knew, his arms had gone around me, and he pulled me close against him. It was the second time that day I'd stood in a man's embrace, but Smike of course felt very different from Will. He was probably only an inch or two shorter, but his frame was much more slender, almost bony compared to Will, who was a man in his prime and who obviously engaged in some sort of physical activity to stay fit. The other main difference, of course, was that Smike wanted me in his arms, and Will --

_No_. If I went down that road, I'd cry all night. I knew I should try to stop the flood of tears, make an attempt at regaining my composure, pull away from Smike and his false compassion. But you know, wrong as it was, it felt really, really good to stand there and feel his arms around me, his hand stroking my hair, his lips brushing against the top of my head. I would never have given either Mike or Sauron credit for having the smarts to know that sometimes a man just needs to keep his mouth shut and hold a woman until she's cried herself out and is capable of rational thought once more. Somehow, though, Smike managed to do just that.

The flood ended eventually. After a while I settled into some fairly aggressive sniffling. In silence, Smike let go of me, disappeared down the hallway, and then came back with a tissue, which he handed to me without comment. It wasn't until after I had blotted my eyes and drippy nose that he asked, "Bad day?"

Not trusting my voice quite yet, I just nodded. I figured I could always manufacture some train of crappy events to explain my imitation of Niagara Falls, although I knew it would have to be good. After all, I hadn't allowed Smike to see me cry for months, and I doubted he'd believe me falling apart like that over a broken fingernail or something similarly trivial. And God knows I couldn't tell him the truth.

His dark eyes searched my face. I probably looked a complete mess, since I wasn't one of those girls who could cry prettily and never had to worry about her nose turning red or her skin getting blotchy. But maybe Smike would get distracted enough by the surface imperfections that he wouldn't be able to read anything more than a combination of bad circumstances out of my meltdown.

"Do you want to talk about it?" he inquired.

His voice sounded way too gentle. It worried me. Wouldn't Sauron be completely annoyed by a hysterical female? Hell, a guy didn't even have to be possessed by a dark lord to find a fiancée who burst into tears over nothing more than a little irritating.

I wiped my nose again. "It's just a bunch of dumb stuff," I replied.

With a sigh, he bent and retrieved the grocery bag that held dinner. "Well, tell me about it while we're eating. This still smells pretty good."

And it did, even though the chicken was sort of lukewarm by the time we sat down at the dining room table. Without bothering to ask me whether I wanted any, Smike poured me a large glass of merlot and set it next to my plate.

Maybe I needed to reconsider my belief that he couldn't read minds. Anyway, I wanted that wine, so I took an oversized swallow, then another. Maybe some day in the future I'd be able to stop and figure out if this whole Smike nightmare hadn't turned me into an alcoholic on top of everything else.

"Sorry about that," I said at last, since it seemed fairly obvious from his expression that he expected some sort of explanation.

He ate a mouthful of chicken, then replied, "I have to admit that wasn't quite the reaction I was expecting."

I wished I could blame my hormones for everything, but my period was weeks off, so that wouldn't work. "Let's just say that I'm still not used to you being nice."

For a split-second his eyes narrowed, but then he shrugged and said, "I can go back to not-nice, if you prefer."

Luckily, his tone seemed to indicate that he was teasing me, so I said, taking care to keep my tone casual, "Oh, I don't think that's necessary." I lifted my shoulders, forced myself to take a bite of chicken, and went on, "It's just that Ms. Leahy didn't like the buttonholes on the frock coat I made, so I have to redo them, and then there was an accident that backed up traffic for miles, and as I was rushing over to the grocery store to get something for dinner I got pulled over and given a speeding ticket, and -- " It was amazing how the litany of minor disasters rolled off my tongue.

Smike nodded slightly, but didn't say anything. I paused, then wondered whether it was better to keep going with the explanations or whether I should just keep my mouth shut and hope that what I'd said was enough to convince him that my day had been miserable enough to warrant the waterworks. To hide my hesitation, I helped myself to some more chicken and a forkful of salad, then sipped at my wine.

He spoke at last. "So after all that, my kindness undid you? Is that it?"

"Well, yes," I admitted.

"Interesting," he commented. "I find it surprising that you continue to...surprise me."

"Guess it's better than being bored," I said, making sure I kept my tone light. If he decided in the end that this incident just provided more evidence of the complete incomprehensibility of the female psyche, all the better. If he never knew exactly what to expect from me, then it would be that much more difficult for him to figure out if I were doing something out of character. To tell the truth, lately I'd been having a hard enough time understanding my own reactions to things.

"Infinitely better," he replied, and there was no mistaking the warmth in his eyes as he watched me. That sort of look seemed in always end up with the two of us in bed together -- or on the couch or the living room rug, on a few notable occasions -- but for some reason I didn't find myself minding as much as I thought I would.

I forced myself to glance away from him. Something was horribly wrong with me if I found myself actually liking the way he looked at me. Probably it was just reaction, I told myself. After all, that had been a fairly clear rejection from Will. No doubt some weak part of my nature just craved the attention, even it came from Smike. "Thank you," I managed at last, since I knew I had to say something. "That was really -- thoughtful, to hang those curtains for me. I really do appreciate it."

"Why don't you show me how much?" he asked softly, and he set down his napkin and stood.

Of course I should have expected that sort of a reaction from him. For some reason, though, I didn't find myself tensing quite so much when he moved over to my side of the table, then bent over and pressed his lips against my neck. Instead, I gasped, because somehow he had finally found that one spot that had always been guaranteed to make me melt, the place that only Gorendil's mouth had ever discovered.

My breath sped up, and I closed my eyes, hating myself for my weakness, but knowing I would -- as always -- do nothing to stop him. I could feel Smike's breath warm against my throat as he whispered, "You want it, don't you?"

I swallowed, but said nothing.

Naturally, my silence didn't deter him. Again his mouth moved against my neck, and he said, "Tell me you want me."

My lips parted. "I -- " The breath seemed to catch in my throat, strangling me.

Another whisper, this time more urgent. "Tell me."

"I want you," I gasped at last, feeling as if somehow the words were being torn from me by some unseen force. "I do. I want to feel you inside me."

Although I couldn't see his face, the satisfaction in his voice was obvious enough as he said, "With pleasure." And with that he pulled me up out of my chair and against him.

Of course I did nothing to stop him. Not then, or during everything that followed. No, instead I clutched him to me, gasped as I shook from a climax that rocked me to my core, and lay in his arms long afterward, something I had never done before. Then he held me, and told me he loved me.

I made no reply. At least I wasn't so far gone as to tell Smike that I loved him.

Yet.

* * *

A day passed, and another...and another. I heard nothing from Will, and I was too stubborn to call him myself. If he didn't want to talk to me, fine. If he had somehow decided that his promise to help me didn't quite stack up against an unwanted and uncomfortable attachment, then so be it.

Well, that was what I tried to tell myself, anyway.

Although I'd always hated the last-minute frenzy of finishing up projects and preparing for exams, at least it was something to keep me occupied, something that took enough of my attention that I could keep functioning from day to day. Between making sure every garment I had constructed for my Studio Design class was as perfect as I could make it and dodging calls from Tricia, the wedding coordinator, I almost forgot Will for as much as fifteen minutes at a time.

It didn't help, of course, that my mother just happened to come over the day after Smike had hung up the curtains. She proceeded to ooh and aah over how wonderful they looked and how thoughtful that had been of Mike, and although she'd had her doubts about us rushing into marriage like this, it was so obvious that he was just crazy about me and that we were obviously made for each other.

Somehow I managed to smile. I'd perfected a plausible façade by that point; some days I had a hard time remembering what was truth and what was lies. I had to pretend to Smike that I was happy; I had to pretend to my friends and family that everything in my life was just perfect. I had to pretend to myself that Will's rejection didn't matter, and that I'd find a way to get rid of Sauron without his help if I had to.

And after that? My brain didn't really want to go to that place, and I couldn't blame it. As time went on, it seemed easier and easier to imagine myself as Mrs. Mike Westerfield. After all, where would I ever find someone else who was that crazy about me?

Maybe Gorendil had been, once upon a time. Apt phrase, there -- as the days wore on, it seemed as if my time with the Lord of the Nazgûl was as distant and unreal as something from a fairy tale, a story I'd once found beautiful but which had increasingly little to do with the life I lived now.

School for me ended on Thursday morning, after I finished the final for my Costume Illustration class. I should have been happy; I thought I had done pretty well, and in the past I'd always been thrilled at the thought of Christmas vacation and a few weeks of nothing to do but catch up on my sleep and finish all my shopping. I'd never been one of those organized types who shopped all year and was finished by December first -- I invariably got crushed at the mall with the rest of the procrastinators. Not that I minded. There was something fun about getting caught up in the season and sharing it with so many other people. Besides, since I had an open schedule I usually shopped in the middle of the day when the stores weren't so crowded.

This year, though, all I could think of was the fact that after this week Smike and I would be at home together with nothing much to distract us. Lately he'd been spending less time at the lab, too -- I didn't know whether it was because he'd hit a dead end and needed to take some time off to mull things over, or whether maybe he'd decided that being stuck here in San Marino with me wasn't such a bad deal after all. Neither possibility was particularly appealing.

I also sensed a Battle Royal coming up between my mother and Mr. Westerfield over Christmas and where we would spend it. My mother had hosted Christmas Eve at our house ever since I could remember, and she'd already hinted to me that if Mr. Westerfield suggested having the holiday at his home she'd be forced to Put Her Foot Down. Wonderful. As if I didn't have enough to worry about.

At least my final had ended at noon, which meant that traffic was only normally craptastic and not epicly bad. I could have made it home by twelve-thirty with some ease, but I realized as I pulled off the 110 freeway and headed east on California that I really didn't _want_ to go home. I knew that Smike had to administer finals until four, so at least I'd have some precious time to myself, but what precisely was I supposed to do with it? I'd already pored through Mike's copies of _A History of Middle Earth_ until it felt as if my eyeballs were about to start bleeding, and I had yet to find anything that would help me get Sauron's spirit out of Mike's body and permanently banished from this plane of existence. So what was left? Should I run over to my parents' house and fish my old Ouija board out of the trunk in the attic to which it had been banished and ask the spirit world what I should do next? Or maybe I should just go visit that psychic who lived in a little pink house on Colorado Boulevard not too far from Pasadena City College and ask her what she thought of the entire situation. Lisa and I had always joked to one another that we were going to drop in there for a reading one day, but of course we never had.

Well, I'd have to make a decision soon, since San Gabriel Boulevard was coming up soon, and I'd need to turn down that street to get home. And after all, what else could I do? Drive around all afternoon and waste gas because I couldn't think of any better way to occupy my time?

The intersection was coming up. I moved over into the right lane, drawn by the inexorable pull of the familiar. Really, I was being an idiot. I should just go home, take stock of the refrigerator, see what I could manage for dinner, and then make Smike take me out for Mexican food or something.

At that moment, my cell phone rang. To be precise, the Virgin Mobile cell phone in my glove compartment -- the phone to which only one person had the number -- rang.

All my resolve flew right out the window. Luckily, the light was red, so I was able to lean over, fumble with the latch on the glove compartment, and pull the phone out before it could roll over into my voicemail. I pushed the button to take the incoming call, and said, "Hello?"

_His_ voice, of course. "Sarah?"

Well, who else would it be? "Um, yeah," I replied, since I didn't know what else I should say.

A long pause. Then he said, "I should have called you before this."

That was true, but I didn't think saying _Well, duh!_ would be terribly mature. Instead I answered, "Good timing, actually -- I just finished my last final."

Another pause. "Good," Will said, but his voice sounded distant, as if he were thinking of something else entirely.

The light chose that moment to turn green. Since I was in a right-hand-turn-only lane, I couldn't do much except point my car toward home. I drove slowly, though; I felt nervous and distracted, neither of which was conducive to a safe driving experience.

"I was starting to wonder if I would ever hear from you again," I blurted, then wished I had bitten my tongue before the words escaped it. Nothing like uncomfortable silences to make me say something -- _anything_ -- to fill them up.

He gave a low, mirthless laugh. "To tell you the truth, I wasn't sure if I was going to contact you. This has become...complicated."

Actually, I thought it had started out complicated and had gotten progressively worse from there, but I figured saying as much probably wasn't very tactful. "So what made you change your mind?" I asked.

"Several things, chief among them Rupert asking me if I needed help tracking down my missing balls."

His rueful tone almost made me laugh, but I wasn't sure whether Will would appreciate a reaction like that. Still, I never thought I'd be grateful to a nut case like Rupert. "And so...?" I let the words trail off; I wasn't sure exactly what I'd meant to ask.

"I need to see you," Will said immediately. "Now, if possible."

My heart began to pound. It was stupid, of course; very likely Will's overdeveloped sense of responsibility had gotten the better of him, and this was a duty call and no more.

I heard myself say, "I've got the afternoon free."

"Good," he replied. "Then why don't you come over and see me here?"

"At the church?" I asked.

"No," he said immediately. "I'm at home. Let me give you directions."

_Home?_ I thought. _He wants me to come over to his house?_

I barely retained enough presence of mind to listen to the simple instructions on how to get to his place. His home was north of the 210 freeway, in a district of restored homes known as Bungalow Heaven; I'd have to turn the car around immediately and head north to Orange Grove Boulevard, then go on up Los Robles from there.

I repeated the directions to him, then said, "I should be over in about ten minutes."

"Good," he replied. "I'll see you then." And with that he hung up.

I snapped the phone shut and tossed it onto the passenger seat, then made a U-turn at the next light that would allow me to perform the maneuver. My brain was spinning, although I tried to tell myself that he probably just wanted me to come over to his house because he didn't want me to be seen at the church too many times. Then again, wouldn't my showing up at his house be even more compromising? Maybe his neighbors were all off at work, or maybe they just weren't the nosy types. It was impossible to know for sure these days. The couple who had bought the house next to ours five years ago had lived there at least a year before they'd even bothered to say hello. You just never knew.

All I did know, as I pointed my car northward and prayed that Smike would get stuck late at Caltech as he dealt with his own round of finals, was that my pounding heart told me I was far from over William Gordon.


	16. Conspiring

Wow, looky -- an update in less than two weeks! I really am trying, I swear.

Thanks for the reviews, everyone!

* * *

Sixteen: Conspiring

I tried not to read too much into Will's call. That sort of thinking could get me into trouble. Big trouble.

The sky darkened gradually as I made my way across town; I hoped it wouldn't start to rain, since I only had a denim jacket with me and no umbrella. I had a vague recollection of hearing someone on the radio during my morning drive say that a storm was coming in, but between stressing over my finals and the rapidly deteriorating situation between Smike and me, I hadn't paid much attention.

Will's house was located in a part of town I didn't know very well, since it was north of the freeway and far enough away from Old Pasadena that I didn't have much reason to go there. I had to drive through a few neighborhoods that looked questionable at best, but as I followed Los Robles on its steady climb toward the foothills, the houses around me slowly began to improve. I turned off the main street onto a smaller road, the sort that had been laid down in an age when vehicles were a lot smaller than they are today; I had to swerve a few times to make my way around hulking SUVs that jutted too far out from the curb.

My destination proved to be on the right side of the street in about the middle of the block. The house was a largish dark-brown Craftsman-style home with a well-kept yard. I wasn't sure how much clergymen earned, but it seemed that Will wasn't doing too badly for himself.

There wasn't any place to park directly in front of Will's house, so I pulled over as soon as an empty spot opened up two places down. I reflected, as I got out of the car, that maybe it wasn't such a bad thing that I had to park a little ways away from Will's. My car was pretty recognizable, so it was probably just as well that I'd left it in front of a neighbor's place.

_Just keep it professional_, I told myself, as I made my way up the front walk and climbed the steps to the porch._ It's pretty obvious that he's been keeping you at arm's length, so don't do anything stupid._

Easier said than done, probably, but I was damned if I was going to make a fool of myself all over again. Besides, it was about time that I concentrated on the real matter at hand, which was getting rid of Sauron. My relationship with Will -- if you could even call it that -- could wait until that particular problem had been taken care of.

I lifted a hand that shook a little and rang the doorbell. A matter-of-fact buzzing sounded inside the house; no fancy Westminster chimes here. After a long moment, the door opened, and Will stood there, looking down at me with an unreadable expression on his face. I noticed that, unlike the other times we'd met, he wore his clerical collar. Whether that meant he had come here directly from the church, or whether he'd worn it as a subtle signal for me to keep my distance, I wasn't sure.

"Come in," he said, after the briefest hesitation, and I stepped inside.

Unlike my parents' colonial-style house, Will's home had no formal entryway; I found myself standing in the living room. It was a dim, clubby sort of space, with the original wood floors and dark wainscoting. The furniture was likewise dark and Mission-style to match the house, although I had the feeling that the somewhat battered piece were knockoffs and not actual antiques. Bookcases lined the walls, and a large TV perched incongruously in the far corner.

"I'm glad you could make it," Will said, leading me through the living room, down a hallway, and back into the kitchen, which was considerably brighter than the front room, despite the heavy gray clouds outside. A red kettle on the stovetop gave off a cheery burst of steam. "I was just making some tea. Want some?"

"Um...sure," I said. I'd never been much of a tea drinker, but I figured I'd go with the flow.

At the far end of the kitchen was a small table that looked out over a long, narrow backyard; the lot seemed to be deeper than it was wide. I noticed a dark one-story building that was probably the garage, since a lot of these older houses backed up to alleyways and allowed access to the garage from the rear rather than the front.

The walls of the kitchen were a buttery yellow, and the appliances all had a deep brown finish that probably hadn't been seen in a home improvement store since the late '70s. Still, despite its out-of-date appearance, the space felt warm and homey, unpretentious, especially when compared to the recently remodeled kitchen at Mike's house. It was a room that belonged to someone who obviously didn't care whether something was stylish or not as long as it still worked.

I sat down at the little farmhouse table and surreptitiously pushed the Metro and front-page sections of the _L.A. Times_ off to one side. Will must have noticed my movement, because he immediately said, "Oh, sorry about that," and gathered up the scattered bits of the newspaper before dropping them into a recycling bin next to the back door. After that he turned off the heat on the stovetop, then asked, "Darjeeling all right for you?"

"Sure," I replied, although I was fairly certain I'd never had Darjeeling before. Still, it sounded pleasantly exotic.

He nodded and pulled a couple of tea bags out of box, then busied himself with the mugs. For some reason I got the distinct impression that he was stalling. But tea needs to steep for only so long, and after another minute or so he gathered up the mugs and came to take the other seat at the table.

The tea was far too hot to drink yet, although I wrapped my cold fingers gratefully around the mug. It was warm enough in the kitchen, but I felt chilled anyway. Probably I just hadn't dressed warmly enough for the day, which looked as if it was about to start pouring rain at any second.

"Milk or sugar?" Will asked, and I shook my head.

"No, I like it plain," I said, which I supposed was true enough. That was how I liked my iced tea, anyway.

"So do I," he said, then glanced away from me and out the window. The cool gray of his eyes seemed to reflect the cloudy day outside, and once again I felt shaken by the utter unreality of watching someone who appeared to be Gorendil in every fiber but who somehow wasn't. At least not the Gorendil I remembered.

"I think this is the part where you're supposed to say, 'I guess you're wondering why I brought you here,'" I remarked, and risked a small smile. I didn't know whether that was really a good idea or not, but he just looked so damn solemn, and I felt compelled to do something to break up the tension.

"Something like that," he agreed, and I thought I caught a small lift at the corner of his mouth. It wasn't much, but at that point I figured I'd take what I could get.

I lifted the tea to my lips, but I could tell it was still too hot, so instead I blew on it a few times and then set the mug back down on the table. "If you're worried about -- about what happened, then don't be. I promise that won't happen again." Whether that promise really would be kept, I didn't know for sure. I just knew that I needed to do something to reassure him that there wouldn't be any awkward replays of that scene on the roof of the parking garage.

For a second Will didn't say anything. Then it seemed as if some of the tension went out of his shoulders, and he really looked at me for the first time. I forced myself to return his gaze, awkward as it felt to do so. "It's not personal," he said at last.

_Oh, really?_ I thought. _Rejection isn't 'personal'? Then I'd really like to know what exactly _is _personal._ But I knew better than to repeat those thoughts aloud. This wasn't a cut-and-dried situation, after all, and trying to convince Will to resume the relationship I'd had with his former self would only end up in more awkwardness or outright confrontation. "If you say so," I managed, and then sipped at my tea. Still too hot, and I'd probably have a burned tongue to show for my trouble, but I had to do something to fill the awkward silence that followed my comment.

His hands clenched around one another where they rested on the tabletop. "Sarah, I -- "

"It's all right, Will," I said steadily. "Why don't you tell me why you wanted to see me?"

Will sighed, then answered, "Well, Rupert has a theory."

Great. Just what I needed -- another one of Rupert's crack-brained ideas. As much as I wanted to utter some home truths about Rupert's former contributions to my current dilemma, I instead forced myself to ask, "About what?"

"You mentioned that Sauron made a device to measure tachyons."

"Well, yeah," I replied, wondering what the hell that had to do with anything.

"When I told Rupert about it, he got very excited." Throwing me a wry glance, Will added, "That is, even more so than usual."

I supposed that made sense. After all, nutcase or not, Rupert used to be a theoretical physicist. Learning that someone had actually managed to fabricate a device that measured something no one had been able to measure up to that point would be pretty exciting. A gizmo like the one Smike had cooked up would probably be worth a lot to someone like Rupert. "What, does he want me to steal it or something?"

"No, he wants you to destroy it."

That reply made me sit up a little straighter in my chair and give Will a disbelieving look. "What the hell for?"

"I know this may sound a little far-fetched -- "

"Why am I not surprised?"

Again I noticed that faint little twitch at the corner of Will's mouth. But he sounded unruffled as he replied, "You know that Sauron made the One Ring by pouring a good deal of his own spirit and will into it. The personal strength he put into the Ring gave it its power, but at the same time it's also what made Sauron vulnerable through the Ring. Destroy it, and you destroy him. Rupert suggested that maybe we're dealing with the same concept here."

I made a noncommittal noise and tried another cautious sip of tea. By then it had cooled down enough that I didn't feel as if I were going to sear strips of flesh off my tongue by drinking it. "It's just a little rinky-dink box that looks like Smike put it together with parts from Radio Shack," I said.

"He probably did put it together with parts from Radio Shack -- or maybe MarVac Electronics, since they're better and cheaper. That's not the point."

A few seconds passed as I considered Will's heretofore unrevealed geeky side. Only a geek would know about MarVac -- or someone who hung out with a geek. I'd been hearing about the place for years from Mike. But I supposed that didn't really matter. "So what _is_ the point?" I asked.

"The point is that, brilliant as Mike might be on his own, there is no way he could have constructed such a device without Sauron putting a lot of himself into it."

"So I just grab that tachyon-finder, hop a jet to Hawaii, and lob it into Mount Kilauea or something?'

Will actually chuckled. "That might not be necessary. After all, the One Ring had to be melted into the fires of Mount Doom because Sauron used those fires to create it in the first place. This probably would be a little easier -- Smike had to have built the thing at the lab or maybe at a workshop at your house. Does he have one?"

As a matter of fact, he did. The house had a real basement, not a big one that filled up the entire foundation, but still a reasonably sized space that was located roughly under the kitchen and part of the dining room. I'd gone down there a few times over the years when Mike had some pet project or another he wanted to show off to me, but I hadn't been in the cellar/workshop since Sauron had arrived on the scene.

"Yes," I said. "But I'm kind of bummed -- I was thinking at least I could get a trip to Hawaii out of this whole mess."

Another chuckle. "Probably not, I'm afraid. Well, I guess we'll just have to hope that he made it in his home workshop and not at school."

"It's hard to say," I replied, after thinking about the situation for a few seconds. "I mean, for a while there he was practically living at Caltech, but I was gone at school a lot, so he could have come home in the middle of the day to work on something, and I would never have known."

"Well, whatever you can find out would be helpful." Will took a sip of his own tea and ran a thoughtful finger down the cracked brown glaze of his mug. "I'm not saying it's anything more than a theory, but at least it's something."

"So what did Rupert say would happen if we do destroy the gizmo?" I asked. As much as I wanted Sauron to take himself off to the nearest convenient alternate plane of existence, I sure as hell didn't want anything bad to happen to Mike. Gruesome images of aliens popping out of people's chests briefly flickered through my mind. I'd definitely spent too many hours watching that stuff during high school, or I would never have associated those visuals with the thought of Sauron being ejected from Mike's body.

A lift of the shoulders. "Difficult to say. Rupert said something about the shock of having something he's connected to like that possibly being enough to dislodge Sauron from Mike's body."

"Possibly?" I echoed. "He doesn't know?"

"How can any of us know anything about this?" Will made a brief impatient gesture and then drank some more tea in an irritated way, almost as if he wished he could do something else but couldn't quite think what.

"That's reassuring," I muttered.

"We're all sort of blundering around in the dark here, Sarah," Will said, sounding rueful. "All we can do is have faith that eventually the solution will present itself."

"Faith," I said. Then I shot him a quick glance from beneath my eyelashes. "I think that's more your thing than mine."

"You'd be surprised. Haven't you ever considered what a leap of faith you took in seeking out the Morrisons, and then allowing me to help you with all this?"

Privately I thought faith didn't have much to do with that...more like an intense desire to resume a relationship I thought I had lost forever. I didn't mention that, though; I had the feeling that particular confession might not go over very well.

A soft, whispery sound outside the window caught my attention, and I looked from my study of the mug I held to see that the rain really had begun to fall. No light drizzle, either -- the neat, narrow yard already looked blurred behind the heavy sheets of moisture that rippled across it. Oh, yeah, it never rains in California. Right.

"Why did you become a minister?" I asked abruptly. The question had nagged at me for a while, but I'd never had the opportunity to inquire further. I didn't know whether this was the best time, but Will had brought up the whole faith thing, after all.

A brief look of surprise crossed his features before he shook his head. "That's a long story."

"So give me the Cliff's Notes version."

The laugh lines around his eyes deepened for a second. "I was raised around it, for one thing. My uncle's a minister back in Brookline."

"And my mother's a teacher and my father a lawyer," I said. "But I never felt a burning desire to enter either one of those professions."

"Service, I guess," he replied, after a long pause. "My parents believed in giving back to the community a long time before it was fashionable. A chance to do something good in the world."

Next to that, my desire to design pretty costumes for television and film seemed pretty shallow. And I won't even go into the wistful fantasies I'd had about what sort of gown I'd wear when I went onstage to collect my Oscar for costume design...well, let's just say that I was feeling more insignificant by the second.

"I'm not sure I even believe in God," I said flatly.

Again, Will surprised me by laughing. "That's all right," he replied. "He still believes in you."

I had no idea how to reply to that. Religion usually made me more than a little uncomfortable -- a girl in my European history class had once tried to tell me I was going to burn in hell after I'd confessed in a moment of weakness that I'd never been to church -- but there was something strangely comforting about Will's faith. He didn't try to shove it in your face; it was just _there_, like the sun in the sky or the ground beneath your feet.

"I didn't come to it easily," he went on, his voice musing. "I'd actually started out studying archaeology. But I realized after a time that that wasn't where my calling lay, and I had to switch paths, even though it cost me."

"Cost you what?"

The gray eyes met mine. "Relationships, for one. I was engaged my senior year of college, but when I decided I should come out here to Fuller Seminary and get my doctorate of divinity, she was less than thrilled. She broke it off right before graduation."

I wanted to hate her, this unknown woman who'd had a prior claim on Will's heart. But obviously she hadn't loved him enough to understand the path he'd chosen, and certainly not enough to follow him out here to Pasadena. Besides, that engagement had to be almost a quarter-century in the past.

I wanted to tell him that I would have gone with him to the ends of the earth, but I knew enough to keep my mouth shut. Revelations like that would just upset the delicate rapport that had begun to build between us.

"I'm sorry," I said, after an uneasy pause.

"It's all right," he said immediately. "She's been married these last twenty years. My best friend from college, as a matter of fact."

That must have been an awkward wedding to attend. I wondered what it would feel like to watch Mike marry someone else, and thought suddenly that I didn't think I'd enjoy it very much. Not that I had those sorts of feelings for him, but still...

"So," I said, since I got the feeling our little trip down Memory Lane hadn't exactly been unmitigated joy for Will, "the little gizmo. Should I try to destroy it myself, or should I bring it to you ?"

"Tough to say," Will replied immediately. I could tell he was relieved that I had steered the conversation back to the problem at hand. "Probably just whatever works best at the time. You might not have a chance to do anything but take care of it when you find it."

And finding it would be the difficult part. Frankly, I hadn't even seen the damned thing since the time I'd spotted Smike in the backyard with it, crawling around on the ground and treating me to a clear view of his backside. He could have returned it to the basement, thrown it in a desk drawer, or locked it up in his office at Caltech against a future day when he could show it to the world and collect his Nobel prize, his doctorate, and tenure, all in some sort of academic Triple Crown.

"I'll have to see if I can track it down," I said. "The problem is that if I start asking too many questions, Smike is going to smell a rat. It's hard to outsmart someone who's twice as smart as you are."

To my surprise, Will reached out and gave my hand a quick reassuring squeeze before immediately withdrawing and lifting his mug of tea with both hands. "Don't sell yourself short, Sarah," he replied. "You have resources you're just beginning to realize."

Maybe so, although I still refused to believe that I had the mental resources to outsmart Smike. I'd caught Sauron off-guard that one time back in Middle Earth, but I wasn't stupid enough to think that I'd be able to manage that particular trick ever again. Despite his nicey-nice behavior lately, and despite the fact that I'd let myself warm to him in a way I would never have believed myself capable of a few months earlier, that was still Sauron hiding in Mike's body. I knew what he was capable of...and he knew the same about me.

I managed a smile. My fingers still tingled from where Will had touched me. "True," I said, trying to keep my voice light. "I have you and Rupert."

Will looked a little skeptical, as if he weren't quite sure whether I was teasing him or not. But apparently he decided to give me the benefit of the doubt, because he said, "Yes, you do."

As much as it felt good to know I wasn't completely alone in this, I knew that the burden of actually finding Smike's tachyon gadget and destroying it would fall on me. I had Rupert and his overactive brain to thank for that particular mission. And, as with everything else about this whole sorry situation, I had no way of knowing whether doing as Rupert had instructed would even make a difference. I could end up with a pile of smashed Radio Shack (or MarVac) parts and Smike looking at me with that familiar snotty grin and asking me what that poor little gizmo ever did to me.

The clock on the wall over my head told me it was now two o'clock. Plenty of time until Smike came home, but it was still a not-so-subtle reminder that time was passing more quickly than I would have liked. I wanted to stay in that warm kitchen forever, listening to Will talk about his past and drawing strength just from the sound of his voice, the familiar timber made somehow strange by the traces of a Northeast accent. I felt safe here, tucked far away from Smike and his machinations. Right now he had no idea where I was, and I found that thought strangely reassuring.

But I would have to go home some time. I certainly couldn't stay here, and reason told me that I should take advantage of these hours when I knew Smike would be trapped at Caltech as he watched a bunch of freshmen cudgel their brains over string theory.

"I should go," I said reluctantly, pushing my now-empty mug of tea away from me. "Smike won't be home until around four-thirty, and I won't get another chance to investigate the basement for a long time after this, since we're going to be cooped up together over winter break."

Will gave me a long, careful look. I didn't want to guess what he might be thinking; despite the fact that he'd done everything he could to keep me at arm's length, I knew from our strained conversation on the roof of the parking garage that he was less than happy about the true nature of my relationship with Smike. No doubt the thought of me spending several week in close quarters with the erstwhile Dark Lord was less than appealing. But Will also probably realized that I wouldn't have another chance like this again, and any attempt to get me to stay would only betray the fact that he cared a little more than he wanted to admit.

"You're right," he said, then stood.

I did the same, and glanced quickly out the window. The rain certainly hadn't let up in the last twenty minutes. If anything, it had only intensified. I was going to get soaked just heading out to my car, even if I ran the whole way.

"Let me loan you an umbrella," Will offered, after following my gaze.

I shook my head. "Better not," I replied. "I know it sounds crazy, but I don't think I should have anything of yours with me. Less chance of Smike making a connection."

If Will thought that sounded a little nuts, he didn't say so. He just nodded, then led me back out to the front door.

"Be careful," he said.

For some reason, I shivered. Then again, it could have just been the ferocious draft coming in from under the door. "I always am," I said, then let myself out, clenching my jaw against the onslaught of cold wind and even colder rain. There was no time to look back at Will; I just bowed my head and ran for the car, as the wet found its way down past my collar and soaked my hair almost immediately. I'd pulled out my keys as I stepped off the front porch, but it still felt like an eternity as I fumbled with the lock. Then I was inside the car, my hands shaking so badly I had a hard time getting the key into the ignition.

I just had to pray that I trembled only from the cold, and not from the thought of the task which lay ahead of me.


	17. Outages

I decided to go ahead and post this, even though the alert system has been more than buggy. Here's crossing my fingers! Thanks for the reviews, everyone!

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Seventeen: Outages

The rain didn't let up as I moved south toward Mike's house. If anything, it intensified. By the time I pulled into the driveway, the street was already halfway flooded; Southern California's drainage systems are sadly lacking when it comes to heavy rainfall. Good thing I'd already gotten just running to my car at Will's house -- I didn't have to worry about getting wet during my hasty dash from the garage to the front door. It's at times like this that you really appreciate the concept of an attached garage.

The house was silent and cold. I hurried across the living room and boosted the thermostat to a cozy seventy-two degrees, then moved with equal speed to the bedroom. I knew I had to get into Smike's basement workroom before he came home, but it wasn't even three yet, and there was no way that I'd go down into that drafty basement without changing out of my soaked clothes and drying my hair at least a little. The last thing I needed was to come down with a cold.

I pulled off my chilly, damp jeans and wet socks, then threw on a pair of ratty but comfortable cords, the warmest socks I could find, and an old mohair sweater that had belonged to my mother in college and which I'd appropriated a few years ago because I liked its fuzzy texture and deep wine color. She'd been about to donate it to Goodwill anyway and couldn't figure out why I'd want the thing, but it had a fun retro look and was wonderfully warm.

The wet had reactivated every wayward wave and curl in my hair, and I didn't have time to bother with trying to blow it out stick straight the way I usually did. I just blotted out as much excess moisture as I could, threw in some balm, and hit it with a diffuser for about five minutes, which was all the time I wanted to give the project.

The rain drummed on the roof with such force that it sounded almost like thunder. Wait -- that _was_ thunder. I paused in the living room and looked out the French doors that opened to the backyard. We usually didn't get much in the way of thunderstorms in Southern California, but an unusually nasty storm cell must have decided to park itself over the San Gabriel Valley.

_Well, I guess it's one way to find out if the roof leaks_, I thought, but I didn't have any more time to stop and watch the display of nature's fury. White light flashed through the house, followed by another roll of thunder that sounded far too close for comfort. I wondered uneasily how waterproof the basement really was.

The entry to the basement was through the utility room off the kitchen, and I paused to gather up the motion-powered flashlight we kept in the supply cabinet over the washer and dryer. I was feeling hinky enough about going down there without having the power fail on me on top of everything else.

I lifted the trap door and began my cautious descent. Set into the wall above the first step was the light switch I remembered; I lifted it and murmured a sigh of relief when I saw the unshielded bulb at the bottom of the stairs turn on. Down there was the door that led into the basement proper. I'd worried that Smike might have installed a lock on it, even though it hadn't had one previously, if I remembered correctly. But his legendary paranoia hadn't extended that far, or maybe there simply wasn't anything important enough down there to merit a lock. After all, the entry to the basement was inside the house, not located out in the backyard or someplace else where strangers could have had access to it. Maybe Smike hadn't realized that I knew all about Mike's workshop.

At any rate, the door to the basement opened for me with no problem, and I reached out to my right to turn on the overhead lights. Back in the day these had been plain fluorescent fixtures, and I saw immediately that Smike hadn't changed them. Everything else, though...

I stood there for a moment, trying to grasp what I was seeing. Oh, the workbench with its neat grid of tools and stacked storage compartments filled with electronic bits and pieces looked about the same. But the rest of the basement, which had roughly the same footprint as the kitchen and dining room combined, had been completely altered.

The space was crowded with plain metal racks, the sort you might see in a warehouse to hold bins or boxes. But these racks were crowded with containers of various shapes and sizes, all filled with water. I saw empty water-cooler bottles, aquariums, and tall beaker-shaped vessels I couldn't quite identify. They seemed to shimmer in the harsh blue-white light of the fluorescent bulbs overhead.

"What the hell?" I murmured, moving toward the closest rack. Each of the containers had an odd little bump or blister at the bottom made of some clear material that looked like hardened resin or something similar. Peering at the nearest one, I realized there were thin wires or leads coming out of the blister, leading up from the tank and joining with the wires that radiated out of the other containers in that particular cluster.

Mystified, I wandered over to the next rack and saw pretty much the same thing. By following the bundled wiring, I tracked it over to the far wall and saw that it disappeared up into the roof of the basement. From there, I had no idea where it might go, although if I were following the layout of the house accurately in my mind, it looked as if it probably came out near the floorboards of the wall that separated the living and dining rooms.

_What are you up to, Sauron?_ I thought, but I knew I could sit there and stare at the mysterious setup all day and not be any closer to discovering its purpose.

The lights overhead flickered for a second, and I jumped, clutching the flashlight. But the power held, although for how long, I had no idea. I knew I'd better just get to my business and not worry about whatever science fair project Smike had going down here. It didn't look particularly dangerous, whatever it was.

I crossed to the workbench and started rifling through all the storage compartments and drawers that would be big enough to hold something the size of Smike's tachyon detector. All I got for my trouble was some extremely dirty fingernails; it was pretty obvious that the maid service never came down here to give things a thorough cleaning. While any electronics buff or do-it-yourself geek would probably be in raptures over the enormous supply of components and gadgets I discovered, I found nothing that even remotely resembled the tachyon detector.

Well, I should have known it wouldn't be that easy. I'd just hoped that it would be in the basement. I hadn't gone down there since Sauron invaded Mike's body, which made it a convenient hiding place.

The workbench with its various cubbyholes wasn't the only option, however. Along the wall closest to the door were stacks of clear plastic storage containers, and I went over there to see if maybe he'd secreted the device in one of those. But all I found was a box of Christmas lights (I made a mental note to pester Smike about putting them up, as I was sure that would annoy him), several containers filled with model train components (I got all excited when I found a little rectangular gizmo that resembled the tachyon detector...until I realized it was just the control switch for the train), and a few more bins that looked as if they held every single book report and term paper Mike had ever written.

Muttering a curse, I glanced down at my watch. A little past three-thirty. Still within the bounds of safety, since Smike's last final went until four. He'd probably have some odds and ends to finish up after that, not to mention slogging home through the pouring rain, but although it was likely he wouldn't get here until five, there was an outside possibility he could be home as early as four-thirty.

Even though I knew it probably wouldn't do any good, I wandered up and down between the racks of mysterious water-filled containers, checking to see if the device I was searching for had been left anywhere in their midst. Of course not; the only thing I found was more wires and a couple of mouse traps. Empty, thank God...I didn't think I could deal with a mouse carcass at that point.

Sighing, I cast one more glance around the basement in the forlorn hope that I'd missed something vital. Of course I didn't see anything, so I went to the exit, flicked the lights off, and shut the door behind me.

Without warning, the exterior light next to the door died. Blackness fell around me, and I let out a frightened little squeak before I realized that the power must have just gone out. I clicked on the flashlight and began to move up the stairs with exaggerated care -- the damn things didn't even have a handrail, and I really didn't want to trip and fall in the dark. Eventually I made it back up to the utility room, then moved on out to the kitchen and the drawer where I knew we kept some candles and a couple of Aim-N-Flames. Most of what I found were tea lights left over from the Middle Earth party Mike had thrown back in September -- God, was that really only three months ago? -- but I also located a chunky pillar candle still in its plastic wrapping, along with a couple of half-burned taper candles and matching brass holders. I lit them all, then set the pillar on a plate since I couldn't find anything else to put it on. That one I left burning on the counter in the kitchen, but the tapers and their accompanying candlesticks I took out to the dining room to set on the table there.

The house felt indescribably creepy; although it wasn't even four o'clock, the day had still turned to utter murk outside. At that time of year sunset comes early, but that wasn't what had caused the rushing dark. I looked outside and could barely see the fence across the backyard. The clouds overhead were the color of a bruise: blue and black and purple. I shivered, even though the furnace had done a good job of warming up the place.

But I didn't have time to give in to what felt like a galloping case of the heebie-jeebies -- I needed to get into Smike's office and see what I could find in there. Leaving the candles to illuminate the dining/living room area, I shook the flashlight a few times to bring it up to maximum power, then went down the hall to the office.

It was even darker in there, since the blinds were shut tight. I focused the flashlight's beam on the desktop, even though I knew Smike wouldn't possibly be stupid enough to leave something as important as the tachyon detector out in plain sight. The plasma screen for his computer was as dark as the rest of the house, but I knew it was probably all right; Smike never left the computer on when he wasn't around, so I felt fairly certain it had been protected from whatever power surge blew out the lights. Off to one side was his desk lamp, a stapler, and an old coffee mug with the Star Wars 20th anniversary logo emblazoned on it that had been turned into a pen/pencil holder. Everything was very orderly and neat, the items lined up so precisely it looked as if Smike had set them in place with a straightedge.

It was the same with the first desk drawer I opened. A variety of office supplies, spare printer cartridges...everything in its own little compartment in one of those desk-drawer organizers that I always thought seemed like a nifty idea but which I'd never gotten around to using myself. But I didn't see anything in there that I wouldn't have found in a million other desk drawers, although I made a mental note of his stash of paper clips in case I needed some in the future.

Below that was another, larger drawer that held a ream of paper and some manila file folders. To the other side of the desk I found one deep drawer that held a hanging file system. I pulled out a few of the sheets one of the files contained, but they were covered in the same incomprehensible equations and symbols I'd seen in the physics books Smike had left lying around. With a wince, I slid the papers back into the file where I'd found them and cursed under my breath. Somehow I really hadn't thought it would be this easy, but I still hoped that I might catch a break.

No dice, however, and I moved the flashlight away from the desk to survey the rest of the room. The far wall was lined with low bookcases that filled the space beneath the window. Both the other walls had bookcases covering them as well, and across from me next to the door was the whiteboard that Smike obviously used for figuring out difficult equations, as it was all marked up in his precise architect's hand.

I stepped out from behind the desk and went over to the bookcase beneath the window, trying to ignore the draft that came in through the frame. Maybe he'd set the tachyon detector on top, or squeezed it in between a couple of books. But all I found was row after row of thick, impressive-looking textbooks, and several sets of what looked like technical journals in those little half-open cardboard organizers people use to store back issues of magazines.

Turning, I scanned the flashlight across one of the other walls full of books, but I saw nothing there, either. That left the walk-in closet, which was hidden behind a door to the right of the bookcase I'd just inspected. Mike had always used it as an impromptu sort of coat closet, since the house didn't have a proper one near the entry, but maybe Smike had put the tachyon detector in there, hidden in a box or something.

I went to the closet and opened the door, then shook the flashlight a few more times to charge the waning battery. Directing the beam upward, I focused my attention on the shelf above the mostly-empty clothes rack; there were only two or three coats actually hanging there. The shelf held several of the long, shallow sorts of boxes that are commonly used to store photographs. I figured I might as well take a look inside, so I moved closer and got up on my tiptoes, hoping that I wouldn't have to go get a step ladder to reach the damn things.

"What the hell are you doing?"

Smike's voice came from directly behind me, and I jumped, and narrowly missed hitting my head against the closet pole. I could feel my heart begin to pound, but I forced myself to turn toward him with what I hoped was a look of relief on my face. He stood next to the desk, his hair plastered to his scalp and water dripping off the lightweight windbreaker he wore. In his hand he held another of the motion-activated flashlights.

"Oh, thank God you're home!" I said.

Obviously he hadn't been expecting that reaction. He blinked, then turned the flashlight beam so that it shone almost directly into my eyes. Bastard. "What are you doing in here?"

The past few months of sneaking around had improved my facility for lying on my feet, if nothing else. "Trying to see if we had any more candles. I only found a couple in the kitchen, and I knew you stored some stuff in here -- " I tried not to look away, but it was hard with that damn flashlight glaring straight into my face.

He held it there for a few more seconds, then dropped the beam at last. Little ghost images from the circular light source danced across my retinas.

"There aren't any more," Smike said. His tone was suspiciously neutral, so I guessed he still wasn't convinced by my act. "If it's too dark for you, then put some tea lights on a plate or something."

"All right," I said meekly, and backed out of the closet and shut the door behind me. Holding my chin up and trying not to look guilty, I began to step past him, but he reached out and grabbed my right arm.

"Stay out of my office, Sarah," he said. "There's nothing in here you need to see."

I wanted to snap, _Jawohl, Herr Commandant!_ -- thus pretty much depleting my entire German vocabulary -- but instead I just nodded with what I hoped was an appropriate amount of outraged innocence and said, "Fine. Are you done manhandling me?"

He didn't bother to reply, but just dropped my arm. Lifting my chin, I stalked out of the office and in the direction of the kitchen. After a few seconds he followed me, but I refused to acknowledge his presence. I knelt and retrieved the bag of tea lights from their drawer and set a couple on a plate, then began to light them with the Aim-'N'-Flame, all the while pointedly looking away from him. Clustered together like that, the little candles provided a decent enough source of illumination, so after I was done I switched off the flashlight, and a few seconds later Smike followed suit.

"How long has the power been out?" he asked.

I lifted my shoulders. "About fifteen minutes? I'm not sure exactly." Crossing my arms, I gave him a suspicious look of my own. "You're home awfully early." The clock over the entry to the utility room told me that it was barely ten minutes after four. I knew it had to be more or less correct, since it was battery-powered and therefore not affected by the electrical outage.

"Everyone finished their final by a quarter to four, so I decided to head home. I'd hoped to beat the worst of the storm, but..." He shrugged, and I could see the drops of water on his windbreaker glisten in the candlelight. "Anyway, I'm going to change." Thunder roared overhead once more, and he shook his head. "So much for your region's supposed Mediterranean climate." With that he turned and disappeared into the half-lit gloom of the dining area.

Since I didn't know what else to do, I followed after him, but only went as far as the living room, where I set the plateful of tea lights down on the coffee table. The storm was still raging outside, and I began to get a little worried. I really couldn't remember the last time I'd seen it rain this hard, and although logically I knew that the house was set far off from the rapidly flooding street and on a raised foundation to boot, I still wondered whether we were going to escape this particular deluge completely unscathed. I couldn't even hazard a guess as to when Southern California Edison was going to get its act together and have the power back on. In other circumstances I might have enjoyed being safe inside a candlelit house...if the house in question had been Will's. But here, alone with a Smike who had caught me digging through his closet? Um...not so much.

I sat there in the soft semi-darkness the candles allowed and waited for him to come back. No television to buffer the edginess between us, no computers or stereos or anything else. This couldn't be good. I shivered, even though the house was warm enough. Thank God the gas company's infrastructure was a lot more robust than Edison's.

"I like your hair that way," Smike said, suddenly reappearing from down the hallway.

Unfortunately, I jumped a little. I hadn't been expecting him back so soon. "Um, what?"

"Your hair. It reminds me of -- " He stopped suddenly. "It looks good, that's all."

Reminded him of what? I realized he must have been referring to the way I'd worn it in Middle Earth. No blow dryers or flat irons there; I'd had to let my hair go its own way, which was wavy and a little wild. How nice to think that Sauron had stopped to admire my hair in between rounds of abuse.

"Thanks," I said. A line from one of my favorite movies, _The Princess Bride_, bubbled up to the top of my brain: _Thank you so much for bringing up all those painful memories. Why don't you just give me a paper cut and pour some lemon juice in it while you're at it?_

But I didn't want him to see that his casual compliment had stirred up things I'd tried to forget. I leaned over the coffee table and pretended to be absorbed in shifting a few of the tea lights around on their plate. "So are you all done with school now?" I asked.

"Almost," he replied, then sat down in the overstuffed wing chair he'd sort of adopted as his own. "I have to go back in early next week once I'm done grading exams and enter all the final scores in the campus computer system, but that should be it." Leaning back in the chair, he casually crossed one leg over the other and then fastened me with that dark-eyed glare I'd come to know all too well. "What were you really doing in my office?"

My stomach made an uneasy flip-flop. "I told you -- looking for more candles."

"And that's the best you can do?"

"Considering it's the truth, yeah." I crossed my arms and stared back at him, but in the uncertain light his expression was almost impossible to read.

For a moment he remained silent. Then he said, "I suppose it doesn't really matter -- there's nothing in that office of any importance, except the computer. And I'm sure you already know that it's password-locked."

"Oh, is it?" I asked, attempting a tone of mild curiosity.

Smike chuckled. "Really, Sarah, I think you've missed your calling. All this time designing costumes, when it's quite obvious you really should have been an actress."

Suddenly the room felt stifling. I managed a small laugh and said, "I'll take that as a compliment. But really, I haven't been acting. OK, I'll admit that a while back I went in your office to see if I could find some extra paper for the printer up in my studio, but one look at all those crazy equations you had on your marker board was enough to convince me that I really didn't want to go back in there again."

"A wise decision." He uncrossed his legs and leaned forward slightly. I think he smiled ever so slightly; I couldn't tell for sure in the half-dark. "A word of advice, Sarah -- don't meddle in things you don't understand. You could end up getting hurt."

"I don't know what you're talking about," I replied, although the note of bravado I attempted didn't sound convincing even to myself.

"No," he said, his voice musing. "I don't suppose you do."

At that moment the electricity decided to come back on. I hadn't turned on many lights when I came home, but the lamp on the sofa table flickered into life, as must have the overhead fixture in the kitchen, since the dining room became halfway illuminated by its reflected glow. "Well, thank God for that," I said. "I was worried that I was going to miss tonight's episode of _Ugly Betty_."

"That would have been tragic, I'm sure," Smike remarked.

I shot him an annoyed look but didn't bother to reply. While Smike had developed a somewhat unhealthy fascination with television in general, we'd had more than a few bicker-fests over which shows we were going to watch. Thank God for Tivo.

"Well, I'd better see what we've got in the freezer that I can nuke for dinner," I said, since right then I just wanted to put some distance between us. "I don't want to go back out, and I'm not sure how many places would even be delivering in this sort of weather."

"It's lightening up a little," he replied, after giving a quick glance out the window. I wasn't sure how he could tell, since whatever minuscule amounts of daylight had been left when he got home were now gone completely. Maybe he could see in the dark. Or maybe he could hear the raindrops lessening. Not that it mattered, I supposed.

I shrugged. "Still..."

With that I stood and went on into the kitchen, then opened the freezer and began to rummage around inside. It was way too crowded in there; we'd been ordering out a lot lately, and it was probably a good thing we were stuck eating some of what was on hand. At least that would clear out a little bit of the surplus. I saw that we still had a couple of those Bertolli's pasta dishes, and some frozen garlic toast. That would work. I shut the freezer door, then jumped. Smike stood just a foot away, staring at me intently.

"What?" I demanded. "Pasta not good enough for you?"

"No," he replied. "I was just wondering what your explanation was going to be for this."

I paused, the bag of pasta in one hand and a box of frozen Mama Bella garlic toast in the other. "Explanation for what?"

An unpleasant smile lifted his lips. "Take a look."

Mystified, I set the dinner items down on the countertop and followed Smike into the utility room. Then my heart began to pound a little harder as he lifted the trapdoor and pointed inside.

I tried to appear unconcerned, but I could feel the anxiety began to tighten in my throat as I peered down the stairs to the basement. And as I looked, I suddenly understood what had set him off. The damn light next to the basement door was still on -- I'd forgotten to turn it off after the power had knocked out the electricity.

Mouth dry, I glanced back up at Smike, who regarded me with a look of mocking concern. For a few impossibly long seconds, neither one of us said anything. Finally he spoke.

"Is there anything you'd like to tell me, Sarah?"


	18. Surrender

Fast update this time -- I had an unexpectedly open weekend and went to town. This chapter will probably make some people happy and others...not. ;-) Thank you for all the reviews...I'm just happy the alert function is, well, functional!

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Eighteen: Surrender

For a second I had the crazy impulse to just bolt past Smike and dash out into the storm. Maybe if I ran hard enough and didn't look back, he wouldn't be able to find me. Don't ask me where I planned to run _to_.

But after that one insane thought passed through my mind, I forced myself to stand my ground and stare back at him. His expression told me nothing, but I knew this had better be good.

"Christmas lights," I said, after the barest trace of a pause.

Smike frowned. "What?"

"Mike always kept his Christmas lights in the basement. I noticed that almost everyone else on the street had theirs up, so I thought I'd go down and see if I could find them so that we could get them up tomorrow or over the weekend. I don't want to look like the neighborhood Grinches." I knew I didn't dare show any of the relief I felt at coming up with that lie. Thank God I'd spied the lights earlier...and that my ever-developing sense of self-preservation had somehow managed to unearth the tidbit about the Christmas decorations.

"And you just happened to think of this in the middle of a huge thunderstorm?" Although his face remained impassive, Smike's tone told me that he wasn't exactly convinced.

"Well, I think I noticed the lights when I drove up because it was so dark outside already. I was sort of at loose ends, what with finishing my last final today, so I thought I'd go down in the basement and have a poke around. Then when the power got knocked out, it sort of gave me the heebie-jeebies, so I thought I'd better come upstairs and light some candles." I crossed my arms and shot a questioning glance in his direction. "By the way, what the hell are you doing with all those containers of water down there? What if there's an earthquake or something? You'll totally flood the basement."

"I'd say the odds against that are in my favor," he replied, looking irritated for the first time. Probably he didn't appreciate my derailing his own line of inquiry with questions of my own. "As for why they're there, I doubt you'd understand the explanation."

If it had anything to do with tachyons, multiverses, or other arcane topics, probably not. But I didn't want to admit that, even though it didn't really signal a total lack of brainpower on my part. From the research I'd done and the carefully casual conversations I'd had with Drew on the subject, I'd come to the conclusion that there were maybe five people on the planet who could really understand what Smike was up to. "More tachyons?" I asked, my tone a little arch.

He gave me a quick, unsmiling glance. "Something like that. Let's just call it a type of detection array and leave it at that."

Why he needed all that when he had his little pocket gizmo, I wasn't sure, although I supposed that by having an array in place all the time he'd have a better chance of collecting solid data which could be analyzed at his leisure. No doubt all those wires fed into a computer hidden somewhere in the attic or someplace similarly inaccessible.

The fact that he'd put something so complicated together under my nose was also a more than a little disconcerting. It made me wonder what else he'd been up to all the time I had been away at school or stuck in traffic; obviously some of the time I thought he'd spent at the lab had instead been utilized here for some other purpose.

I managed a shrug of what I hoped looked like indifference. "Well, I guess you know what you're doing. So anyway -- you'll get the Christmas lights up this weekend?"

"I suppose so," he said grudgingly. "If it stops raining. What's the point of wasting electricity with all these ridiculous lights, anyway?"

Normally I would have said that was a vintage Smike comment, except I'd heard similar grumbles from my father over the years. I don't think my dad cared so much about the electricity involved as the chance he might fall off a ladder and break his neck while hanging the damn lights. Smike probably didn't want to have to expend the effort on something he saw as completely frivolous.

"It's festive," I said, unable to keep myself from throwing a sticky-sweet smile in his direction. Really, I felt almost giddy with relief over apparently managing to pull my fat out of the fire one more time. I didn't want to stop to think about what would happen when my luck finally ran out.

"It's stupid," he replied, then shook his head. "But if you insist -- "

"I do," I said immediately. "Mike always puts up Christmas lights. It would look weird if we didn't."

"All right. I already said I would. That doesn't mean I have to like it."

"_You're a mean one, Mr. Grinch_," I responded, with an annoying lilt in my voice. Smike gave me a very pained look.

He asked, "Are you going to fix that food, or just let it sit and melt on the counter?"

It was early for dinner, but I found I was actually hungry, and I supposed Smike must be, too. Or maybe he just wanted to distract me. In either case, it was fairly obvious that I had won this round.

I wasn't sure I even believed in such things, but I got the sneaking suspicion that I'd made my guardian angel earn her paycheck that day.

* * *

The next morning I was able to get out on my own, since I had a meeting with Tricia Dupree to discuss table settings, and Smike put his foot down on that one. He'd tasted cake and helped choose the menu for the dinner at our reception, but he was damned if he was going to stand around and listen to Tricia and me argue for hours over the relative merits of damask versus plain tablecloths and which china pattern to use.

I had the feeling the real Mike would have probably felt the same way -- free food is one thing, linens and china something else altogether -- so I didn't bother to argue the point. Besides, I really wanted to get out of the house alone so that I could talk to Will and tell him that Rupert's brilliant idea hadn't been so bloody brilliant after all.

My meeting with Tricia wasn't until eleven, but I took off around ten. Even so, Smike wasn't around to see me leave. He'd left for Caltech before nine, saying that he wanted to work on grading exams in his office there. Possibly, but I thought the real reason he left in such a hurry was that he didn't want me nagging him about the Christmas lights. The storm had blown itself out during the night, but the yard was still a sodden mess, and the gardeners were going to have a real party the next time they showed up to take care of the yard, what with all the dead leaves strewn everywhere. It was still wet enough out there that I would never have asked even Smike to put up the lights in those conditions. He didn't know that, however, and I certainly wasn't going to disabuse him of that notion when it meant that it got him out of the house far earlier than I would have hoped.

Still, I wouldn't make the mistake of calling Will from the house. I put myself into an updated "ladies who lunch" ensemble for my meeting with Tricia (knee-length wool pencil skirt, cashmere sweater, and high-heeled boots), and then took off for Old Pasadena, where I figured I could use one of the parking structures as a place to conceal myself while I tried to contact Will on my cell phone.

The parking garage turned out to be fairly crowded -- it wasn't a peak shopping time, but the structure was also used by people who worked in the area and held monthly passes. I was able to get a spot on the third level, though. After I'd turned off the engine, I unlocked the glove compartment and pulled out the phone. No missed calls from Will, at least as far as I could tell. Great. He couldn't even be bothered to check on me to see if I was all right?

Feeling more than a little irritated, I dialed the number for his office, but it just rang through to voicemail. I left a brief message saying that I needed to talk to him and ended the call. Then I looked up the cell number he had given me and tried that one. It rang three times, and I sighed. Wonderful. More voicemail.

But he picked up on the fourth ring, sounded a little harried. "Who's calling?"

"It's Sarah," I said.

Immediately his tone changed. "Sarah. Everything all right?"

"As well as can be expected, I suppose," I replied, sounding crabby even to myself.

"You didn't find the tachyon detector?"

"That's putting it mildly." I hesitated, then asked, "Are you free? I mean, I'd rather talk in person if possible."

The pause that followed was so slight I might not have even noticed it I hadn't sort of been expecting it. Will said, "All right. I'm at home -- actually, I'm out back in the garage. A branch fell on it last night during the storm, and I'm trying to sort out the mess."

"Oh," I said. "I can do this later if you're busy -- "

"No, it's all right. Just come around the back when you get here. Access is through the alley."

"OK," I replied. I wasn't sure if I wanted to be traipsing around an alley in three-inch heels, but whatever. At least the rain had stopped, and things were starting to dry out. I wasn't sure what time the storm had finally weakened and moved on, since I'd been dead asleep since about eleven. We'd watched some television (or I watched TV while Smike did something complicated on his laptop) and then gone to bed. Gone to sleep, actually; it had been one of those rare evenings where he didn't try to exercise his pre-conjugal rights. I didn't know if he was simply tired or had lost interest, and I really didn't care. At least I'd been able to have one peaceful night.

I saw evidence of the violent storm all around me as I drove over to Will's house -- leaves blown everywhere, palm fronds lying in the street, trash cans knocked over, intersections still half-flooded or covered in mud. Our house seemed to have done all right, but that was probably because Mr. Westerfield had had a new roof put on before Mike had taken ownership of the house.

From the outside, Will's home looked OK. The front yard was covered in leaves, but so was everyone else's yard, so whatever. I drove to the end of the block, turned right, and then turned right again into the alley. From there I counted to three, and that brought me to his garage.

At first it didn't look so bad. The door was up, so I parked my car across the opening and got out, stepping gingerly on the uneven asphalt. I peered inside, then realized I could see daylight through about a two-foot hole in the roof. Water still dripped in from the gash, and bits of sodden wood and shredded tar paper were piled on one end of what looked as if it used to be a work bench.

"Sarah." Will came out of the garage toward me; no nonsense about a clerical collar today. He wore a dark gray sweatshirt over some beat-up Levi's, and his hair was a mess, and it didn't appear that he had shaved.

In other words, he looked amazingly hot.

I hoped he hadn't noticed that I'd tried to check out how his ass looked in those jeans. Hey, I'm only human.

"That must have been some tree branch," I said, feeling my face flush in the cool morning air.

"Off a hundred-year-old oak," Will replied. "Luckily, the rest of the tree is all right. I was just clearing out the debris and making sure it hadn't done too much to the car. But it mostly fell on my workbench, thank God."

He did sound truly thankful, and when I turned my attention to the car, I could see why he was glad the workbench had taken the brunt of the damage.

"What _is_ that?" I asked, surveying the brooding piece of black metal that dominated the center of the garage.

"'69 Plymouth Barracuda," he replied proudly.

Damn. As a replacement for one of the Nazgûl's huge black horses, or even one of those hideous flying beasts, it definitely held its own. I didn't know much about cars, but this one looked pretty bad-ass. It was also about the last car I would have chosen for a clergyman. "Do your parishioners know about this?" I inquired, smiling a little.

Unfazed, he replied, "Of course. I won't say I don't get teased about it from time to time, but it's really not that extravagant. I bought the car when I was in college and just keep tinkering with it." The light faded from his eyes, and he added, "I don't think you came over here to discuss cars with me, though."

"No," I said. I crossed my arms; I'd thrown a long black coat on over my outfit, but it was still cold out in the garage. "No soap on the tachyon detector. It's nowhere in the house. However, I did get a marvelous opportunity to further hone my lying skills when Smike caught me snooping around. I'm thinking about going into politics when this is all over."

Will didn't crack a smile. "Are you all right?"

"Yes," I said. For some reason, his solicitude annoyed me. He hadn't seemed that concerned the day before when he sent me off on my little spy mission. "As I said, I was able to lie my way out of it. But it's not in the house. He must have it locked up in his office at Caltech. Or maybe he's hidden it in a safety deposit box." I lifted my shoulders. "And don't even think about trying to get me to break into Caltech. Industrial espionage is a little out of my line."

"I'd never ask that," he said, looking a little taken aback.

"Well, you asked me to look for it in the first place."

"Simply because it was in your own house, and Rupert and I figured -- "

"You figured you could just sit back while I did the dirty work," I interrupted.

An even more pained expression crossed his face. "That's not it, Sarah."

"Then what is it?" I demanded. "Did you and Rupert ever stop to think about what might happen if Smike found out I was looking for the damn thing?"

"I knew you'd be careful and would do it when he wasn't around."

"And I was, except he came home early, and -- " I broke off, then shook my head. "Anyway, no harm, no foul...except that Smike's even more suspicious of me than he was before. So now I have to be doubly on my guard."

"I'm sorry, Sarah," Will said, and he really did sound contrite. Not that that really helped. His being sorry didn't change the fact that Smike had discovered my snooping and, despite appearing to believe me, no doubt was going to watch me even more closely from here on out. Just another fun development in the ongoing party that was my life.

"All right," I said, after a pause. "Like I said, he didn't press the issue. But we're going to have to come up with something besides pulling a Mount Doom with the tachyon detector, because I don't see that happening any time soon."

Will's gaze shifted away from mine. "We didn't really have a Plan B."

Typical. "Well, that's peachy." I glanced at my watch; it was a little past ten-thirty, and I had to be in South Pasadena at eleven. "If you guys don't have any more brilliant ideas, then I guess I should get going. I have to meet my wedding planner and pick out tablecloths. I'd sort of hoped this would be a non-issue by now, but it looks like I'm going to be married to Smike and popping out little Dark Lords before you and Rupert come up with a way to actually help me."

His hands clenched. "You know I would never let that happen."

I didn't want to hear the pain in his voice. I just wanted to be angry with him over his impotence in this situation. "Actually, I don't know that, Will. Maybe I was stupid in thinking that anyone could help me. Maybe there's nothing any of us can do."

"That's not true," Will replied, and although he sounded calm enough, I could see a familiar tension in his mouth. He was far more upset than he wanted to let on.

"Do you know that for sure?" I asked.

His hesitation was the only answer I needed.

Unable to keep the bitterness out of my voice, I added, "Maybe you should ask God for help, since obviously Rupert is useless."

"That's not fair, Sarah."

At that point I really didn't care what I said. "You know what? I don't give a shit about what's fair. Is it fair that any of this is happening to me? Is it fair that poor Mike -- who's never hurt anyone in his life -- got possessed by Sauron? So forgive me if I tell you that I don't give a rat's ass whether I insult Rupert or not. All he's done so far is get me into more trouble."

Will sounded infuriatingly calm. "Sarah, I can understand that you're upset -- "

"You think _this_ is upset?" I demanded. "This is nothing." Angrily, I fished my car keys out of my purse, then said, "You know what? Until you're willing to offer me help -- _real_ help, not this bullshit stuff that just makes things even worse -- I think it's better that we don't talk to each other. I've got too much to deal with." I turned toward my car.

To my surprise, Will stepped toward me and caught me by my purse strap. The unexpected movement forced me to stop and face him or risk getting strangled. What the hell --

"This isn't easy for me, either," he said, then released the braided leather strap once it was obvious I'd decided to stay put for the moment. "Do you think I enjoy the thought of you putting yourself in danger? For that matter, I don't particularly care to think about you going back to him every day, letting him -- " His lips clamped shut, as it to trap whatever words he'd been about to say.

Angry as I was, I couldn't help feeling a sort of wary joy. Will couldn't be saying those things if he were as indifferent to me as he wanted me to believe. "I don't know what to think anymore," I said.

"Neither do I," he replied. "I just know that I keep thinking things about you that I shouldn't."

"Is it so wrong?" I asked. "It may have been in another world, but we loved each other once. Why was it all right there and not here?"

"It's not that simple," Will said immediately.

"On the surface, maybe," I admitted. Then I gave him a straight look, daring him to meet my eyes. To his credit, he did. In those gray depths I saw frustration, anger, but worry more than anything else. I began to realize that what seemed simple to me was anything but for him. Not only was there the age difference to consider, but also, he didn't hold his faith lightly. Oh, maybe he hadn't taken a vow of celibacy, but neither was he the type to just fall into bed with someone. As an added bonus, in the eyes of the world, I was an engaged woman. A sham engagement, to be sure, but no one besides Will, Rupert, and the Morrisons knew that. I honestly didn't know what would look worse to everyone if I broke it off with Smike to be with Will -- that I'd dumped poor Mike Westerfield for someone twice my age, or that I'd taken up with an Episcopal priest, of all people. I couldn't imagine that his parishioners would be exactly ecstatic about the whole situation, either.

Not that I would be stupid enough to break the engagement while Sauron still inhabited Mike's body. Much as I wanted things to be over with, I also didn't want to be dead...or worse.

Will looked miserable, though, and inwardly I berated myself for pressing the issue when I'd told him days earlier that I'd never mention it again. In his own way, he was probably suffering as much as I was. Then again, he didn't have to live with Sauron.

"It's all right," I said at length. "I know there's no point in discussing this right now. I know we can worry about all that when -- well, later." _If there even is a "later,"_ I added mentally.

His mouth made a sudden, bitter twist. "I try to tell myself that every day. It doesn't work."

Maybe I should have realized what was going to happen next. But I'd thought Will had a better grip on his emotions than that. I hadn't taken into account the fact that he was exhausted and worried and had probably been up half the night.

He kissed me.

A second went by before my brain caught up with my mouth. Then I thought that maybe I should try to stop him. Then I decided that was a really bad idea and instead just kissed him back.

I don't know how much time went by. A few minutes? An hour? All I did know was that Will's arms had gone around me, that he held me so closely against his body that it felt as if he were trying to meld our two separate forms into one. His unshaven cheek rasped against my skin; he smelled of sweat and damp fabric and the faintest musky remainders of whatever aftershave he'd put on the day before. The heat of his body hit me and warmed me, and I hoped he would never let me go.

Of course he did, eventually. For an impossibly long second we just stood there, looking at one another. Then I saw the faintest flicker of a smile come and go across his mouth. "I've decided it's better to choose my battles," he said.

"So you're saying you've lost this one?" I asked, once I had gotten my breath back.

"Lost?" he repeated, and then he really did smile. "I'd like to think of it as a strategic surrender."

I grinned back. "Works for me." That kiss had blown whatever shreds of self-sacrifice I might have possessed a few minutes earlier completely out of the water. And it was clear to me that Will's self-control had suffered a serious blow of its own.

What that might mean for our future together, I couldn't guess. At the moment, I didn't even want to try. At least I knew Will loved me, that he wanted me just as I wanted him. For those few precious seconds while he'd held me in his arms, I'd felt whole in a way that I hadn't since I left Middle Earth. I'd felt safe and loved. That sense of security might be proven false in the near future, but I needed to cling to it now. If nothing else, it would give me the strength to go on fighting Sauron.

That kiss had made me realize exactly what I was fighting for...


	19. Contrition

Big fat chapter this time! I couldn't figure out where else to break it, so here it is. Well, it kept me busy for a while. ;-) Thanks for all the reviews, everybody! Believe it or not, I don't think we're all that far off from the end here. (Well, probably another four chapters or so.)

* * *

Nineteen: Contrition

I drove home from my meeting with Tricia Dupree still in a daze. God knows what she thought of me, since I'd been so abstracted and absent-minded during our consultation over the table settings that I wouldn't be surprised if she thought I'd stopped on the way to our meeting for a quick round of meth. Of course there was no way I could tell her that the only thing I happened to be high on was William Gordon's kiss.

Still, I'd managed to let her guide me to some extremely beautiful embroidered silk toppers in the palest blush color imaginable, along with simple white linen tablecloths. Very elegant, very classy -- and, I hoped, very not needed. But the colors went with the overall theme of the wedding, which was an almost monochromatic palette of cool white and soft ivory, with soft, soft pink, like the inside of a conch shell or the sky at dawn. The sad thing about the whole situation was that I was getting my dream wedding...to someone I hoped I'd never have to marry.

Nevertheless, I tried not to let myself brood too much on that. Instead, I remembered how Will's mouth had felt on mine, the way he had looked at me...how he'd said he kept thinking things about me that he knew he shouldn't. And how I'd wanted more, but knew I'd have to settle with that one kiss for now. The memory of that kiss could keep me going, help me to continue even though I still had no idea what to do about Smike. At least I finally had proof that Will felt the same way about me as I did about him.

It was about one o'clock when I pulled into the garage. To my surprise, I saw Mike's charcoal-gray BMW already inside. I'd thought that the grading he had to do at school would have taken him longer than the four hours or so that had passed since he left the house, but maybe he'd decided to bring some work home with him.

A stab of frustrated anger flared in me. I wished I could have had a little time alone to compose myself, to make sure no betraying hint of what had passed between Will and me showed in my face. That obviously wasn't going to happen, though, so I had to settle for checking my reflection in the mirror on my sun visor, freshening my lip gloss, and running a comb through my hair. I'd straightened it that day, but if someone had asked me whether I'd done so to look more polished for my meeting with Tricia or to spite Smike, who'd expressed a preference for its natural curly state, I couldn't be sure.

After I felt reasonably sure that I looked presentable, I grabbed my purse and got out of the car, then went up the walkway to the front door and let myself in. I didn't see any sign of Smike, but as I crossed the living room and approached the dining room, I stopped dead.

At the center of the table sat a large bouquet of at least two dozen red roses, perfectly displayed in a crystal vase. I saw a small white card lying on the table near the vase, so I leaned over and picked it up. _Sorry about the blow-up yesterday_, it said, in Mike's neat block printing. _Forgive me?_

I turned and saw Smike standing at the end of the hallway. The puppy-dog look was back. Uh-oh.

"Do you like them?" he asked.

"They're beautiful," I replied, which I figured was safe enough. They really were gorgeous, after all. But beautiful as they might be, I couldn't trust Smike's motives for giving them to me in the first place.

It didn't help that he had the "contrite Mike" look down pat. "Well, I started thinking about things this morning, and I realized that I might have been a little over the top last night. I didn't mean to upset you."

"I'm not upset," I said. That wasn't even a lie. Upset? No. Wary and not believing the apologetic act? Absolutely.

His expression cleared a little. "That's good. I tend to be protective of my things, and sometimes I can get...carried away."

That was an understatement. This morning my right arm had revealed a ring of small bruises from where he'd grabbed me the night before. "It's all right," I replied. "No harm, no foul. I suppose I just caught you off-guard."

"That's true," he admitted, his features showing some relief that I was making this so easy for him. "But still...anyway, I just wanted to apologize."

I managed to say, "No problem," before I looked away from him and back at the roses. If I were lucky, he'd just think that I was taking a moment to admire them some more. No need for him to know that I'd glanced away because I worried that -- spot-check in my car's vanity mirror notwithstanding -- he'd somehow take one look at me and immediately guess what I'd been up to that morning.

Even though I knew I had no real reason to feel that way, a wave of guilt hit me. Somehow it just seemed wrong that I'd been over at Will's house, stealing an illicit kiss, while Smike had been ordering flowers for me in an attempt to make up for his behavior the night before. Maybe he really did feel sorry for the way he had acted. It could just be more of Mike coming out now and trying to fix the situation, since of course he would never have done anything so casually abusive as bruising my arm. Although he might have enjoyed action films as much as the next guy, Mike abhorred violence in real life -- called it "the refuge of people who couldn't figure out a peaceful solution" -- and being forced to share his body with a being who didn't think twice about annihilating entire populations couldn't have been exactly fun.

If that were the case -- if this was more Mike facing me than Sauron -- then I supposed that could explain my feelings of guilt. Even though Mike and I had never had a romantic relationship, still we were very close, and this felt too much like sneaking around on him...especially now that I knew he really had harbored those sorts of feelings for me all along and just never acted on them for fear of driving me away.

_Would he have?_ I wondered, and I didn't even know how to answer that question anymore. Before any of this had happened, I probably would have emphatically said yes, it would have ruined our friendship, but now I wasn't so sure. The only thing I was sure of was that I had become a very different person from the girl I'd been six months ago.

He smiled at me then, and a little part of my heart broke at that smile, since I could almost believe it was Mike looking at me. But as much as I wanted to believe that the Mike side of the Smike equation was growing stronger, I couldn't let myself give in to that hope. Besides, as good a guy as Mike had been and still probably was underneath Sauron's veneer, I didn't think he'd be really thrilled to know that I'd been playing kissy-face with a minister more than twice my age. Even in the past Mike hadn't been exactly approving of my boyfriend choices, although his disapproval had been noteworthy because of his lack of comment rather than the reverse. Not that I could blame him; I'd had sort of a knack for going after the good-looking charismatic types who invariably ended up being complete shits. Until Gorendil, of course. I wasn't about to discuss the irony of the Lord of the Nazgûl turning out to be the nicest guy I'd ever dated.

Confused, I looked down at my arm, pushing at the sleeve of my sweater. Smike came toward me then, and reached out to hold up the limb, as if to see the damage more clearly. In the bright daylight that streamed through the French doors in the dining room, the ring of mottled purple-blue stood out distinctly.

"I did that?" he asked, and his shock sounded damn convincing.

Not bothering to deny it, I nodded, then attempted a feeble quip. "Guess you don't know your own strength."

"Guess not," he said, and continued to stare down at my bruised arm. "I've been using the gym at school a few times a week, but..."

Well, that would explain the fact that he'd been looking a little bulkier (for lack of a better word) lately. Still slender, but I'd noticed a few muscles popping up in places where he'd just been downright scrawny before. I'd also noted subtle differences in his face, although at the time I'd chalked it up to that indefinable alchemy which occurs to change a boy into a man -- or maybe just more evidence of Sauron's influence.

"Better ease off on those bench presses, then," I remarked. I wished I could pull my arm from his grasp, but I couldn't think of a way to do so without looking really obvious.

Smike must have noticed my unease, though, because finally he released me. "I really am sorry," he said. "I didn't mean to hurt you."

"It's OK," I said hastily, but it wasn't. I'd seen the growing warmth in his expression, and unfortunately I knew all too well where that sort of thing usually led. I didn't think I could handle Smike getting physically demonstrative so soon after Will had kissed me. Of course I knew that at some point I'd have to deal with it -- there was no way I could withhold my pre-wifely obligations from him for any great length of time -- but now, only a few hours after I'd stood in that drafty, damp-smelling garage and let Will hold me, heard him tell me that he couldn't resist being with me any longer? No way. There were limits to even my endurance.

Instead, I stepped away from Smike with an airy comment about looking for the watering can so I could make sure the roses wouldn't get dried out. Unfortunately, he followed me into the kitchen, saying, "I just brought those flowers home from the florist. I doubt they're in need of attention quite so soon."

"Oh, you never know," I replied, kneeling down to poke around under the sink. I thought I'd seen a small watering can there a while back when I was looking for a replacement sponge. God knows why -- Mike had never kept any live plants in the house. Maybe it had been a relic of his grandmother's. At any rate, the hunched-over position kept me from having to look up at Smike. "A lot of the time they send the flowers out with the water level sort of low so it can't spill in your car or something." That was complete fabrication on my part; to be perfectly honest, I hadn't transported enough flower arrangements in my day to know whether florists did that sort of thing or not. However, it did sound sort of plausible.

As it turned out, the small green plastic watering can was still down there, shoved into a far corner and almost hidden by a row of cleaning products. I wrapped triumphant fingers around the handle and pulled it out of its hiding place, then displayed it for Smike as if I'd just discovered the last resting place of the Holy Grail.

"See?" I said.

He shot me a half-dubious, half-amused glance. "I'm touched that you're so concerned for the welfare of the flowers I got you."

"Well, they do look expensive." I stood and filled the little watering can about three-quarters full, then went back out to the dining room. Cautiously, I poked my index finger into the vase to gauge the water level. To my surprise, it wasn't all that full, so I tipped the watering can's spout into the vase and added about two inches of water. I turned to see Smike watching me, arms crossed, one eyebrow lifted in that expression I knew so well.

"Go ahead and say it," he said.

"Say what?"

"'I told you so.'"

I couldn't help smiling. "Why bother? You already said it for me."

At that he just shook his head. "You're crazy, but maybe that's why I love you." Then he shrugged and disappeared back down the hallway, presumably heading to his office.

I'd heard him say that he loved me before, but I hadn't believed him. In an odd way, the offhanded manner in which he'd said the phrase this time made me think he might have actually meant it.

That thought scared me shitless.

* * *

What with everything else that had been going on, I'd almost forgotten that Saturday night was the holiday party for the physics department at Caltech. Well, technically, the get-together was for the division that included the physics department, so we'd be mingling with faculty and grad students from the astronomy and mathematics departments as well.

Much as I normally would have loved attending such a geek-fest, I certainly wasn't in the mood to have to spend an entire evening pretending to be rapturously in love with Smike, especially around a bunch of high foreheads with whom I doubted I'd have much in common. Don't get me wrong -- I admire the brainpower it takes to even get into a place like Caltech, let alone become a graduate student or professor there. However, this doesn't mean that I think I'm going to have a fabulous time feeling like the village idiot when surrounded by a large group of the aforementioned geniuses.

Unfortunately, short of a broken leg or Ebola, I didn't think I could come up with a convincing way to wriggle out of going, so I just made myself take deep breaths and told myself that it couldn't possibly be any worse than falling into a pit of molten lava with Sauron. Of course the erstwhile Dark Lord didn't help matters by telling me that I shouldn't straighten my hair and that I should wear the boots I'd had on the day before because they were "smokin' hot."

That comment made me wonder if Smike had been watching too much MTV while I was out grocery shopping or something. On the other hand, if he wanted his fiancée to show up looking like a sex kitten from a nighttime soap, far be it from me to say no. I couldn't even be sure whether these commands had come from the Mike or Sauron half of Smike's brain. Mike was a sweetheart, but even he had to be looking forward to walking into the reception with a woman who didn't look much like someone who would be engaged to a nerdy physics student. If I could indulge him in this, I supposed it couldn't hurt, and it might possibly help...if only to convince him that I really enjoyed being the woman on his arm.

So out came the knee-high black boots with the three-inch stiletto heels, a black pencil skirt, and black cashmere cardigan with red satin camisole to wear underneath. It was actually quite a covered-up outfit, except for the slightest hint of cleavage the neckline of the camisole allowed, but I had to admit that it was pretty damn sexy, too.

Smike seemed to agree -- he came into the bathroom while I was fiddling with my hair and stopped dead. "Holy crap."

"Well, you told me to wear these boots," I said demurely, then smoothed a little more anti-frizz gloss on my hair. At least there were products on the market these days that could actually make my sometimes out-of-control locks look good.

"True," he replied. "You can walk all right in those things, can't you?"

"Of course," I said. "They're actually really comfortable." That was an area where buying more expensive shoes actually paid off; they tended to be a lot better engineered. I'd walked blocks in these boots with no problem.

"OK, then," he said, and gave a quick glance at his watch. "We should probably get going. Are you almost ready?"

"Just have to grab my purse." I rinsed my hands off quickly, since those anti-frizz serums tended to be sticky, then moved past him out to the bedroom, where my purse waited for me on the dresser.

After that I followed Smike out to the car. We headed over to Caltech in silence; I had no idea what he was thinking, and I wanted to marshal my reserves. God knows I'd have to be "on" for the rest of the evening, and I didn't feel like expending any extra energy in conversation.

Smike didn't seem to mind, luckily. He kept his attention on the road; even though it wasn't far to Caltech, by that time it was full dark, and some of the streets we traveled weren't that well lit. I looked out of the window, watched the dim shapes of houses and trees move past, and tried not to think about much of anything.

That didn't work too well, unfortunately. The previous night, Smike had wanted to make up for his behavior further by taking me out to a nice dinner, and since I couldn't think of a good excuse for staying home, I had to go along with him. Unfortunately, a nice dinner accompanied by wine put him in an amorous mood, and the evening went downhill from there. About all I could do was close my eyes and pretend it was Will touching me, but that didn't work very well. I knew the differences between the two men, the variations in the way they felt and sounded and even tasted, and although I tried to make myself believe I was with one and not the other, my instincts told me otherwise.

I'd only had time for one hurried phone call to Will, and that only because I made up an excuse about having to run to the store for some odds and ends. We did need a few things, but it wasn't anything that couldn't have waited for a day or so. But I couldn't wait that long to talk to Will, and with Smike parked at home for the winter break, I knew my opportunities for private conversation were going to be few and far between.

Our talk mostly consisted of me reassuring Will that I was all right, trying to figure out when on earth we'd be able to see each other again, and whether the odd setup I'd discovered in the basement meant Sauron was closer to finding a way to get back to Middle Earth. I certainly hadn't a clue, and Will, educated as he might be, wasn't much help, either. He might have a doctorate in theology and be able to read Greek and Latin, but that didn't mean he knew dick about particle physics and quantum theory. The impasse led him to suggest that maybe he should ask Rupert about the tanks of water in the cellar, to which I'd made a rude noise but then admitted maybe he should ask.

"But just ask," I'd warned. "No field trips to the basement. I don't want Rupert within a five-mile radius of that house."

Will had just laughed and said he'd make sure he only asked in the most hypothetical way. Of course Rupert would probably see right through that ploy, but I hoped he'd get the hint that he was supposed to stay hands off.

The call had ended with me promising to manufacture some reason I could be out of the house for a few hours -- God knows the wedding planning should take care of that -- but even then a meet-up with Will wasn't guaranteed. He had claims on his time from people who needed it probably even more than I did. Or at least I tried to tell myself that, and pushed away the extremely uncharitable thought that all his parishioners could just go jump in a lake.

"You're very quiet," Smike said, and I jumped a little.

"Oh, sorry," I replied. "I guess I was just thinking."

His gaze never lifted from the road. "About what?"

Just in case he could see my expression from out the corner of his eyes, I somehow managed a smile before replying, "About last night."

In response, the corners of his own mouth lifted a bit. "Good thoughts, I hope."

"Oh, absolutely," I lied, and then thankfully we were pulling into the driveway that led up to the Athenaeum, the private club at Caltech.

You just gotta love an institution of higher learning that has valet parking. I had no idea whether that was standard or something put in place for the party, but if I hadn't known we were at Mike's school, I would have thought we'd strayed into the local country club instead.

The place is sort of famous, actually -- anyone who's seen the original _Beverly Hills Cop_ movie would recognize the main lounge from the scene where Eddie Murphy strolls up to the maitre d' and makes his famous comment about "Herpes Simplex ten." I didn't think we'd have to worry about drug dealers getting tossed into ice sculptures tonight at this soirée, though.

To my surprise, there were quite a few more women in attendance than I had thought would be. I didn't know if they were all students and faculty, or if some of them had come along as dates. I supposed it was pretty sexist of me to think that these fields would still be dominated exclusively by men; just because I hadn't been a math/science genius didn't mean there weren't a lot of girls at my high school who hadn't been scary smart in those subjects. Still, their presence was slightly reassuring; at least my paranoid fantasies of being the only female at the reception had been grossly out of line.

Less welcome was the sight of Mike's friend Drew making a beeline for us the second we'd walked in the door. I guessed if I'd stopped to think about it, I would have realized that he'd be attending the party. Technically he wasn't a grad student yet, but I knew he worked part-time in the math department offices, so that probably granted him staff status for functions such as these.

"Hey!" he called out, then stopped directly in front of Smike and me so that we had no choice but to pause to acknowledge him.

"Hi, Drew," said Smike, who looked more than a little irritated by the way Drew's stare seemed to be fixed on my Marc Jacobs boots. Hey, it was better than him trying to look down my top, which he'd done on more than one occasion.

"I was hoping you'd show up," Drew replied, after managing to yank his gaze away from my legs to someplace approximately in Smike's direction. "You sure haven't been very social lately."

Well, no one could argue with that. I'd been so wrapped up in my own problems that I hadn't paid much attention to what Smike was doing when he wasn't around me, but I realized that he hadn't kept up with Mike's friends beyond the barest minimum required to prevent them from thinking he was dead or something.

I could see the scowl beginning to etch itself in to Smike's forehead and figured I'd better jump in. "Well, we've been really busy with all the wedding planning and everything," I said, and wrapped my right arm around Smike's left. Much as I detested having to act lovey-dovey with Smike, I also wanted Drew to think that everything was peachy-keen at the Westerfield household. Besides, the mean part of me sort of liked rubbing it in that I'd ended up with Mike. I'd seen Drew interact with other guys, and he wasn't really a bad person, but his social skills with women were in inverse proportion to his math abilities. He was the sort of guy you kept wanting to tell, "Hey, my face is up here" -- and my boobs weren't that big. I didn't even want to think about how much internet porn he must have stashed on his computer.

"Oh, right," Drew replied, looking a little deflated. "You know, the more I hear, the more I think eloping is the way to go, huh, Mike?"

I thought, _Yeah, like you'd ever get the chance_, and Smike's eyes narrowed a bit. "That doesn't seem very respectful," he said.

Drew blinked, and gave Smike a startled glance, as if he'd just witnessed his friend starting to speak in tongues or something. "Yeah...whatever." He shook his head slightly, and his tone turned pitying. "Sounds like someone's getting a little brainwashed."

Without warning, Smike's hand shot out and grasped the front of Drew's limp dress shirt. Although Mike was probably a good four inches taller than Drew, his friend still probably outmassed him. But obviously Smike didn't think that was a problem.

"I'd be careful what I said, if I were you," he said. For a second Smike seemed to lock eyes with Drew, and then he released Drew so quickly that I wasn't sure I'd even seen what I thought I had.

But obviously Drew didn't have any trouble comprehending what had just occurred. "Christ, Mike! What the hell is the matter with you?" He cast a nervous gaze around the crowded room. "I was just joking."

"Good thing you're studying mathematics, then," Smike sneered. "That way no one should be able to tell how much you're lacking in a sense of humor."

And with that he whisked me away deeper into the room, leaving Drew to stare after us, slightly openmouthed. I just thanked God that the entire exchange had happened so quickly no one seemed to have noticed what just occurred.

"Are you crazy?" I whispered. "What if someone had seen that?"

"No one did," he replied smoothly. "And I refuse to let him -- or anyone else -- speak that way about you."

The thought of Smike trying to be my knight in shining armor and protecting me from the foul remarks of someone like Drew was so incongruous that I wanted to burst out laughing, but somehow I managed to keep a grip on myself. "Gee, thanks, Dudley DoRight," I said.

He didn't bother to reply, because at that moment we were approached by a slight man who looked to be in his early fifties. No rumpled professor stereotype here, either -- the man's gray hair might have been thinning, but it was impeccably styled, and his suit was so well-tailored I wondered if it were custom-made. He smiled at Mike and paused, obviously expecting an introduction.

At least Smike had mastered some of the social niceties. "Professor Steinman, this is Sarah Monaghan, my fiancée. Sarah, you've heard me talk about Professor Steinman -- he's my graduate advisor."

"Very nice to meet you," I murmured, feeling a more than a little intimidated. After all, I may have faced down a Dark Lord before, but this was the first time I'd ever met a Nobel laureate.

"I'm happy to meet you, Sarah," he replied, and extended a hand. I shook it briefly, and he went on, "It's good that we can at least have these get-togethers with some of our friends and family -- sometimes the demands of our work here can seem a little overwhelming to those who aren't directly involved in them."

I knew I couldn't tell this kind-faced genius that I'd only be too happy for Smike to spend all his waking hours at the lab, so I just smiled and said, "Oh, I know what you're doing is important. And Mike loves it so much, I know I shouldn't complain."

Smike gave me a quick sideways glance. No doubt he hadn't expected me to be quite so magnanimous. But he just pasted on a Mike-style grin. "See why I think I'm so lucky?"

"Absolutely," returned Professor Steinman. "But don't let me keep you -- the refreshments are that way." He turned to gesture toward several long tables at the far side of the room; as he did so someone else called his name, and he gave Smike and me a half-apologetic smile as he went off to engage them in conversation.

"Good answer, Sarah," Smike said as we approached the drinks table and allowed a waiter (probably an undergrad making some extra cash) to hand us each a cup of champagne punch.

"Well, it's the truth," I replied, and sipped at my punch. It was good, and not overly leaded, thank God. The last thing I wanted was to get completely plowed in front of all the brains. "Mike loved all this stuff. I won't pretend to understand any of it, but why would anyone want to keep the people they care about from doing the things they love?"

"Why, indeed," said Smike, as his dark eyes appeared to appraise me. "It's nice to hear you being so logical."

I opened my mouth to say that I was shocked he'd called me "logical," but then several young men who had to be Mike's fellow grad students came up to us. There was a confused bustle of introductions that segued into comments about the latest crop of undergrads and their various shortcomings. I wasn't sure exactly what happened, but I suddenly found myself standing there alone as Smike was hustled off by his colleagues, probably to do some mingling unencumbered by a fiancée who couldn't tell a particle from a wave.

"The old boys club," a girl remarked from off to one side, and I jumped a little.

"Sorry," she said, and stuck out a hand. "I'm Jess. I'm a T.A. in the physics department, too, but don't hold that against me."

"Sarah," I said, and I took her hand, trying not to wince. She had a hell of a grip.

"I'm not saying it's _not_ getting better around here, but -- " She trailed off, and shrugged. "So you're the infamous Sarah."

"I'm infamous?" I asked. What the hell had Smike been saying about me?

Jess grinned. I wouldn't have exactly said she was pretty, but she had a great smile and a killer stacked-bob haircut, the type I'd always sort of secretly envied because I knew if I ever tried to cut my hair like that, I'd end up looking like Bozo the Clown. "Oh, yeah," she said. "Your getting engaged to Mike has given hope to legions of geeks."

Great. "Well, Mike and I have known each other forever -- " I began.

"So I heard. But still, that makes it even better. High school sweethearts and all that."

I wanted to point out that Mike and hadn't exactly been high school sweethearts, then decided it wasn't worth arguing over. "I love that he's a big science nerd," I said. Maybe it was better to just play along for now. "I think it's cool, even though half the time I don't know what the heck he's talking about."

"So what does he talk about?" Jess asked, after helping herself to another cup of champagne punch.

"All kinds of things. We're both into movies, so we talk about that a lot. And he has all sorts of side projects going on. Just a while ago he built this tachyon detector, and -- "

Jess paused, cup halfway to her mouth. "A _what_?"

"A thing to detect tachyons. He said there was a big concentration of them in our backyard, and -- " I broke off, realizing that maybe that wasn't the best thing to be blurting out to a complete stranger at a party.

The damage had been done, however. Jess's big brown eyes opened even wider as she asked, "Do you have any idea what that even means? No one's been able to measure tachyons -- hell, people are still debating whether they even exist!"

"What?" asked a strange man, this one enough older than Jess and me that I wondered if he might be a junior professor. "Did you say something about measuring tachyons?"

I started to shake my head, but Jess said, "Sarah here says that Mike built a tachyon detector, Reeza. Did he say anything about that to you?"

The unknown man -- I thought he might be Middle Eastern or possibly Pakistani -- shook his head. "No." He looked away from Jess and said, "Hey, Westerfield!"

Smike disengaged himself from the group he'd been standing with and then slunk over, looking suspicious. "What?"

"Rumor has it you built a tachyon detector. Is that true?"

A flash of annoyance crossed Smike's face. "Who told you that?"

Jess pointed at me. "Your fiancée."

Great. I managed a smile and said, "Well, it was just so fascinating that I -- "

"You're mistaken, Sarah," he interposed smoothly.

Both Jess and Reeza gave Smike a surprised look.

"I don't think so," I said. "I've seen it, remember? You were crawling around in the backyard with this little gizmo in your hand, and -- "

Smike threw an indulgent smile in Jess and Reeza's direction. "I think Sarah's been watching a few too many old episodes of Next Gen on DVD. We all know that right now it's physically impossible to build a device to measure tachyons."

Jess glanced away, and Reeza was starting to look a little uncomfortable. I of course knew exactly what Smike was up to -- he wanted to make me look like a stupid uneducated female who didn't know what the hell she was talking about.

"Fine, Mike," I said sweetly. "Why don't you tell them about your science project in the basement?"

For a second I thought he was going to reach out and clap a hand across my mouth. Luckily the other two didn't seem to catch the murderous glare he shot me before saying, "It's no big deal. I just thought it would be interesting to measure seismic perturbations."

"Seismic -- " Son of a bitch.

"Um, it's probably no big deal," Jess said. She looked as if she wanted to be about a hundred miles away. "You don't have to tell us if you don't want to."

"There's nothing to tell," Smike remarked. "Don't mind Sarah. She's a great girl, but she's a little more decorative than intellectual, if you know what I mean. This stuff is way over her head."

Right then I didn't know what I wanted more -- to reach out and punch Smike in the nose, or let the ground swallow me up. Since neither one seemed to be a viable option, instead I assumed what I sincerely hoped was an expression of affronted dignity and stalked out, leaving Reeza to stand there with a faintly flummoxed expression. Jess just looked as if she wanted to take over punching duties for me since I'd obviously fallen down on the job.

No one else seemed to have taken note of Smike's and my lovely exchange, thank God. I emerged on the walkway under the porte cochére and wondered if I should cajole the valet into giving me Smike's keys, thus leaving him stranded, or whether I should just say the hell with it and call a cab. There was no question of walking; we were several miles from home, and I knew I couldn't possibly make it in those boots.

"Sarah."

I turned to see Smike standing just outside the main entrance to the building. In the dim light I couldn't really read his expression.

"Don't you dare talk to me, you bastard," I snapped.

He didn't bother to respond, but instead handed his number to the valet, who had appeared out of nowhere. I sighed, but reflected it probably wasn't the first time the guy had heard a couple squabbling as they left a party.

In silence we both stood there as the car was brought around. It would have been nice to flounce off in righteous indignation, but, as much of a statement as calling a cab would make, I realized I had maybe eight bucks in my purse, and that wouldn't be enough to get me home.

Still fuming, I slid into the BMW's passenger seat and waited while Smike climbed into the car on his side and maneuvered it out of the parking lot. I managed to wait until we were eastbound on California before I exploded. "Decorative? Mistaken? Watching too much _Star Trek_? You asshole!"

He sounded completely unruffled. "Calm down."

I wished I had access to the tire iron so I could hurl it at his head. "Don't you tell me to calm down, you bastard! What the fuck were you thinking?"

"Language, Sarah." Leaning over, he adjusted the climate control slightly so that the temperature inside the car warmed up a little. Well, the physical temperature, anyway. "I might ask you the same thing."

"What?"

"Do you have any idea how dangerous it was for you to mention my projects in front of those people?"

I crossed my arms. "Why don't you enlighten me, since I'm such a mental pygmy?"

"Interesting expression." For a second he glanced sideways at me, but the reflected glow from the instrument panel gave no hint of what he might be thinking. "I can't have anyone finding out about what I'm trying to do."

"And what is that?"

His mouth tightened. "Do I really have to spell it out for you?"

No, he didn't. Of course I knew that all of his delving into subatomic particles and superluminal bodies -- whatever those might be -- was simply a means to his true goal of returning to Middle Earth. This world didn't have the magic he required, so he was using science instead.

For a moment I said nothing. I stared ahead into the darkness, wondering what it would be like to fall into the absolute black between worlds. "And that's all you really want -- to get back to Middle Earth," I said at last.

"Almost," he replied, and I shifted in my seat to stare at his profile.

He continued, "Just Middle Earth...and you."


	20. Truth

I can feel it -- we're very, very close. Two chapters and an epilogue after this, if all goes according to plan. Thank you for the reviews, everyone!

* * *

Twenty: Truth

Smike's pronouncement did nothing to help my nerves. At first I couldn't say anything; I just stared at his profile as he continued to pilot the big BMW homeward. Although I knew I probably shouldn't have been so surprised by his words, I think some small part of me had hoped that once he'd discovered the key to returning to Middle Earth, Sauron would be happy to leave me behind. Unfortunately, that didn't seem to be the case.

Somehow I found my voice. "So you must be getting pretty close to figuring it out."

"Perhaps."

Typical. I should have known he wouldn't give me a straight answer. Then again, given his tendency toward obfuscation, I supposed I just should have been glad that he'd never decided to go into politics.

I tried a different tack. "Well, before you drag me back there, I'd like at least a little advance warning. This time I want to take along a few items -- you know, fun stuff like a toothbrush, toothpaste, deodorant...maxi pads..."

His mouth quirked a little at my comment. "I'll try to bear that in mind."

"Thanks." I settled back into my seat, thinking furiously. What exactly would I do if he came up to me one morning and said, _Hey, Sarah, pack your stuff -- we're off to see the wizard!_ Then I realized there wasn't much I _could_ do, short of making a run for it, and I had a feeling that any such attempt would probably end badly. Very badly. About all I could do was hope that this trip between worlds wouldn't be as painful as the last one. I didn't see how it could -- after all, at least on this go-'round I probably wouldn't be required to fall into a mountain of flaming lava.

We finished the rest of the drive in silence. Smike didn't seem inclined toward conversation, and I found I didn't have much to say anyway. It seemed obvious to me that he'd already committed himself to some plan of action, even if he couldn't be bothered to tell me what it was. I wished I could figure out a way to sneak off and call Will, to let him know that we probably didn't have as much time as we'd thought, but I knew that was impossible. Any sort of errand I could manufacture to get me out of the house would sound completely false, considering I'd planned to spend the entire Saturday evening at the reception. No, I'd just have to slip out the next morning with a blithe comment about needing more milk (which we did).

It was still very early, just a little past eight o'clock. If I had been with anyone else, I would have suggested going to a movie or something to salvage the remainder of my Saturday night, but at that point I just hoped Smike would be more interested in disappearing into his study or his basement workshop than filling up the time with sex. I couldn't remember a time (well, at least since I'd returned to Southern California) when I'd been less in the mood.

I don't know whether he picked up on my vibe or just had more important concerns on his mind, but whatever the case, Smike did wander off into his office, leaving me blissfully alone. Murmuring, "thank God," I sat down on the couch and unzipped my boots, then wiggled my toes. Nothing like getting out of a pair of three-inch heels to make you feel better about the world. Padding on my stocking feet, I wandered off into the kitchen to pour myself a glass of water -- I looked longingly at the bottle of chardonnay in the refrigerator door but then thought better of it -- and snag the last chocolate chip cookie from the package I'd brought home from the store a few days earlier.

Things had been so hectic lately that it felt strange to sit myself down on the couch in the living room and turn on the TV. Maybe not the best use of my time, but I couldn't really think of what else I might do with myself. To be perfectly honest, that nasty scene at the Athenaeum had shaken me more than I wanted to admit. Oh, I'd had Smike run me down before, but never in front of witnesses like that. Either he really was losing it, or he'd told me the truth back in the car, and now he was so close to escaping this world that he really didn't care what bridges he burned in it.

The phone rang. I hesitated, since I really wasn't in the mood to talk to anyone. But the call might be important, and I figured I should probably answer it. After all, I wasn't doing anything terribly important with my time.

So I picked up the handset from the cordless phone -- I'd left it on the coffee table earlier that day after enduring another "spirited discussion" with my mother over where we were going to have Christmas dinner -- and said, "Hello?"

"Jesus, Sarah, what _was_ that?"

Drew. Great. Just fabulous. Suppressing a sigh, I replied, "What was what?"

"That -- well, whatever you want to call what you two just had here. I've never seen Mike act like that before."

Oh, how I wished I could say, _Well, Drew, it's because he's possessed by Sauron...you know, that Dark Lord dude who used to run Mordor? It's made him a little edgy._ But I knew that was impossible, so I immediately began running through excuses in my mind until I came up with something semi-plausible. After a pause that I prayed wasn't too obvious, I said, "Oh, poor guy. After we went outside, he told me he wasn't feeling well, so we came home, and you know what?"

"What?" Drew asked, in tones of deep suspicion.

"He was running a fever of a hundred and three!" I exclaimed, in a tone of (I hoped) mixed astonishment and worry.

"You mean he's sick?"

_Wow, Drew, perfect score on the math portion of the SAT, and you figured that out all by yourself?_ I thought. But I only said, "Yeah, it looks like the flu. No wonder he was acting crazy, running a fever like that. He didn't even know what he was saying."

A silence on the other end of the line. I could almost hear Drew thinking it over and trying to decide whether I was feeding him a line of bull or not. God knows I've acted pretty cracked out when I've spiked a high fever -- one time when I was about twelve I tore off all my covers and tried piling them in the doorway of my room to keep the "fever people" out -- but I wasn't sure whether Drew was going to buy the excuse.

Finally Drew asked, "So were you telling the truth about that tachyon detector?"

Uh-oh. I was sort of hoping that Drew had focused more on the insults Smike had thrown at me than the reason why he'd said them in the first place. "Well..." Time for another lie. I seemed to be turning into the Queen of Crap. "He told me that's what it was, but I think he was just joking."

"Joking?" Drew repeated.

"Oh, you know Mike -- he loves to tease me." That wasn't even a lie -- Mike did have a tendency to tell me things in the most reasonable, deadpan way, and then laugh maniacally once I finally realized he'd pulled one over on me. At the time it had driven me nuts, but now I thought I'd give anything to hear that loony laugh of his again.

Another pause as Drew chewed on that one. But he couldn't really argue the point, since he'd witnessed a few of Mike's and my exchanges after he'd duped me yet again. They tended to end with me swinging a sofa cushion at his head and the two of us collapsing in laughter on the couch while Drew looked on and shook his head. "I suppose...but it does seem weird."

"Well, tell you what -- go out and run a fever of 103, and then come back and let me know how lucid _you_ are," I retorted. "Speaking of which, I should really go check on Mike. I put him to bed, but he threw up just as we got home, and I need to make sure he's doing OK."

"All right," Drew said. He still sounded a little unconvinced, but maybe he'd decided that even if Mike wasn't sick, it was pretty obvious that I intended to cover up for my fiancé, no matter what he might have said back at the Athenaeum. "I'll let you go."

"Thanks, Drew," I replied, feeling relieved I'd managed to deflect his questions. "Oh, and you might want to wash up with some antibacterial soap, since this is a pretty nasty bug."

"That won't work," he pointed out. "Flu's a virus." And then he hung up.

_Nerd_, I thought, but I supposed he was right.

Then I heard an odd sound and looked up. Smike stood at the entrance to the hallway, wearing a derisive smile and bringing his hands together in mocking applause.

I scowled at him. "What do you want?"

"Just to say thank you. I can't help but be touched by your desire to protect me from over-inquisitive friends."

"That was as much to cover my ass as it was yours," I replied, and placed the phone's handset back down on the coffee table. "I don't really want Drew -- or anyone else -- thinking I'm your doormat."

He lifted an eyebrow. "If you say so."

Affecting an air of extreme unconcern, I picked up the remote and changed the TV to the Style Network. Smike hated pretty much everything on that channel. "Is there anything else? I'm busy." I turned and tried to appear completely absorbed in the current offering, which was a rerun of _How Do I Look?_

For a few seconds he lingered there, watching me carefully. I forced myself not to freeze up; no doubt he'd notice any tension on my part and do his best to make the situation worse by deciding to turn things physical. Then he said, "No. I have more important matters to attend to."

After that comment he disappeared back down the hallway, and I allowed myself to slowly exhale. Thank God.

Then I shifted on the couch and made myself watch the television, although to this day I couldn't tell you which episode of the show I actually saw. I just sat there, staring at the flickering images on the screen and wondering how much longer all this could go on.

* * *

The next few days passed uneventfully enough. Smike kept to the house so as to maintain the pretense of his illness, while I found excuses to duck out to the store, to my parents' house, and even to one stolen lunch with my friend Lisa. I thought I was maintaining pretty well, but Lisa kept asking me if I was OK and saying that I seemed a little stressed. Luckily I could place some of the blame on Mike's mythical flu, so I was able to brush off her comments, but I knew a few cracks were starting to show in my armor. 

During that time I managed to speak with Will twice. I relayed my worries about Sauron's return to Middle Earth, but it wasn't as if the extra pressure was going to force Will to come up with a solution any more quickly. He wasn't happy about the situation (to say the least), and said we needed to see each other again as soon as possible. I had more appointments with Tricia on Wednesday and Thursday, so I figured I could go see him on one of those days when I'd already be out and provided with an alibi to hand to Smike.

But you know what they say about best-laid plans...

Tuesday afternoon Smike and I were both home -- he supposedly still suffering from the flu, and I contemplating a mound of Christmas cards I'd bought a few months earlier when I thought it would be a great idea to finally send some out to family and friends. Since I'd bought the damn things, I figured I should sit down and work my way through them, but the prospect didn't exactly fill me with joy.

I'd taken over the dining room table with my project, so Smike sat on the couch with his laptop while a rerun of _Star Trek: The Next Generation_ played at low volume on the television. We'd had lunch, but he was still snacking; he had a bowl of mixed nuts placed strategically on the couch next to him so he wouldn't have to keep reaching over to the coffee table to get some.

All in all, it seemed like a tranquil enough domestic scene. I had no idea why Smike hadn't just stayed in his office to work, but it was an awfully nice day for early December -- the temperature had warmed into the low seventies, so I had the French doors to the patio open, and a light breeze moved through the room. Maybe he just wanted to get some fresh air and not be cooped up in that cramped office.

But I had just set one finished card down on the batch that were done except for stamps when I heard an awful cracking sound, followed by a loud, "Ow!"

I turned and glanced over my shoulder at Smike, who had a hand clapped to his jaw. He looked very pale

"What's the matter?" I asked.

"Don't know," he replied, sounding muffled. "Tooth hurts."

That couldn't be good. I laid down my pen and stood, then went over to the couch. "Let me see."

He scowled at me, but then grudgingly opened his mouth. Although the last thing I really felt like doing was peering inside Smike's mouth, I knew I should. That cracking sound had to have come from more than just a nut, even one as big as the Brazil variety.

Which it had. When I cast a queasy glance at Smike's mouth, I saw immediately that he'd broken one of the molars on the lower right. How, I had no idea, but I guessed that wasn't the immediate concern here.

"You broke your tooth," I said matter-of-factly, then straightened up, glad that I didn't have to keep staring down Smike's gullet.

"Hurts," he said.

"Yeah, I guess," I replied, not feeling very sympathetic. "Looks like we've got to get you to the dentist. Do you have the number?"

He lifted his shoulders, one hand still clutched to his jaw. Obviously he wasn't going to be a huge help.

After some fussing, though, we managed to track down the dentist's number in his PDA. I made the call and informed them it was an emergency. The gal on the phone told me to bring Smike right in -- they'd had a cancellation and could move a few other appointments around. So I bundled him into my car, since there was no way he could drive and I didn't want to deal with the unfamiliar controls of his BMW. And off we went.

The whole thing went pretty smoothly, all things considered. Once I steered Smike into the dentist's office, a capable-looking assistant hauled him off into one of the exam rooms, and I was left to sit in the waiting room and thumb through old copies of _People_ and _Oprah_ magazine. After about ten minutes the woman returned and said, "We're going to have to give him a crown -- an old filling gave way, but this time the tooth cracked, too. This should take about an hour."

"OK," I replied, then assumed an air of fiancée-like concern. "Is he going to be all right?"

She waved a hand. "Happens all the time. He was fussing a good bit, so Dr. Gould hit him with some nitrous. Mike might need some help walking when we're all done, but otherwise he'll be fine. You'll probably want to feed him something soft for dinner, that's all."

I gave her the thumbs-up, and she went back to the exam room. Occasionally I could hear some loud whirring and grinding noises, and tried not to wince. Not that Smike didn't deserve a little discomfort, but there's just something about the frequency they use on those dental drills that feels as if they're grinding right through the base of your skull.

Wishing I had brought a book with me, I exhausted any remotely interesting articles in the waiting room's magazines after about a half-hour. Then all I could do was sit and wait, and try not to let my mind run in circles. Dealing with Smike wasn't exactly a picnic at the best of times, so I could only imagine how crabby he'd be after having a dentist grind away at his lower jaw for an hour or so. And after that I stared at the carefully inoffensive art on the walls and wondered whether it was impossible to go insane from boredom.

Eventually, though, Smike staggered back out into the waiting room, looking completely strung out. The dental assistant walked next to him, steadying him by the elbow.

"I'm not sure what the matter is," she told me. "We've given Mike nitrous before, and it was never a problem."

"Well, he had a touch of the flu over the weekend," I replied. "Maybe that's it."

"Maybe." But I could see her worried blue gaze rest on Smike for a few seconds before she said, "Well, keep an eye on him. Call us immediately if the dizziness persists for more than a half-hour or so."

"No problem." Much as I disliked doing it, I slid an arm around Smike so I could help him get out to the car. "Come on, Mike -- let's get you home so you can rest."

Somehow I managed to maneuver him out of the office and to the parking lot. I fumbled with the keys, then got the door unlocked and practically pushed him into the passenger seat. His head lolled against the seatback, and his gaze looked so oddly vacant that I started to wonder whether I should run back in and grab the dentist to take a look at him. Surely just nitrous oxide couldn't have caused such an adverse reaction?

But then Smike's eyes shut, and I saw him pull in a deep breath, and then another. I peered at him for a few seconds, irresolute. His breathing sounded pretty regular, though, and his color was good, so I decided it must be OK for me to go ahead and take him home.

I backed the car out of the parking space and then pointed it east on Del Mar Boulevard. Traffic was getting pretty heavy, since by that point it was almost four o'clock, and I had to focus on the drivers around me. Then I heard Mike say, "Sarah..."

It was more of a moan than anything else. I risked a quick glance at Smike. He still slouched in the passenger seat, the seatbelt appearing to be the only thing holding him upright.

"Smike?" I asked. He did look a little pale. "Are you all right?"

"Not Sauron," he gasped. "Mike."

I stared down at him, then glanced up just in time to see traffic hitting a dead stop at Fair Oaks. Without thinking, I slammed on the brakes, then asked, "What are you talking about?"

"It's Mike, Sarah." His voice sounded strained and faint, but it also sounded different. Something about the inflection had changed.

But I didn't dare let myself hope that somehow Mike's personality had managed to reassert itself. My tone brittle, I said, "Nice trick, Sauron."

"No trick," he replied. "Can you pull over?"

I threw him a dubious little look, but then figured it couldn't hurt. Besides, we were coming up on Crown City Brewery, and I knew at that time of day I'd probably be able to find a space in an inconspicuous corner of the parking lot. "Sure," I replied, and turned right on Raymond, then left into the lot. Most of the spaces adjacent to the restaurant had been taken, but there were still a bunch in the row closer to Del Mar. I pulled into the one at the end of the row, then put the car in park and turned off the ignition.

"Good," Mike breathed, and I could see the Adam's apple in his throat move as he swallowed. "Don't know how much time I have -- "

"What's going on?" I asked. "If this is another one of your messed-up mind games -- "

"No," he said immediately. "Don't know how -- maybe the nitrous..." He trailed off, then took a deep gasping breath of air. "He's not gone...I can sense him in there...but something's knocked him loose." After he forced out that sentence, Mike's eyes opened wide, fixing me with a disconcerting dark stare. "Don't know how much time I have, so I wanted to tell you -- " He wheezed, and then went on, "Don't trust him. Don't believe anything he says."

"Like I have been," I scoffed, but behind the bravado I felt a sudden stab of fear.

"You have...sometimes..." Mike said, and in that second I knew it was Mike. I can't explain how, except that I'd known him for almost ten years, and his inflections and expressions were as well known to me as my own. "Don't believe him when he says that he's come to care for you. His personality hasn't joined with mine -- he just rifles through my brain like someone searching through a card catalog until he finds the bits and pieces he can use. Just like he's using you, Sarah."

"Using me for what?" I asked. My voice shook, and I dug my fingers into the upholstery of the car seat to keep them from trembling.

"Can't get back without you." His eyes shut, and he slumped against his seat, as if the effort of getting out the last few sentences had destroyed whatever reserves of strength he might have had. "He needs you."

A wave of nervous fear washed through me, leaving me almost nauseated. I swallowed, choking back the sour taste in my mouth. "How do I stop him?"

A movement of his head that might have been a shake. I could see the muscles in his throat working as he forced the words out. "Don't know for sure. Sorry...he can see everything in my mind, but I can't see everything in his. But he's so...so...smug about getting you to believe he cares for you...the emotion is very strong, and I can feel it even if I don't know what he's planning."

"But what am I supposed to do?" I burst out. What good was this information if Mike couldn't give me any idea of how I was supposed to keep Sauron from achieving his goal?

A gasp. Mike's agonized dark eyes met mine. "Be careful. I wish -- I wish -- " His voice was growing fainter, and I had to lean over him to catch his next words. "Wish...I could have told you..."

"Told me what?"

Silence met my anxious question, and I reached out and grasped his left hand. His skin felt clammy and cool against my fingers. "Told me what?" I repeated.

His hand tightened briefly against mine. "Told you I loved you. Such a...coward. Maybe things would have been different."

Could he possibly be blaming himself for being Sauron's target? I wanted to cry, but instead I only clung to his hand. Then I said, "It's all right, Mike. It's not your fault." Hesitantly, I reached out to push a lock of hair back from his forehead. "I'll save you if it's the last thing I ever do."

His lips moved, but I couldn't hear any sound come out. Then he made a horrible noise, half gasp, half gag, and his head drooped to one side.

"Mike?" I took his hand again, but it felt limp and lifeless. "_Mike!_"

His eyes fluttered open, and then narrowed. I stared down into those brown depths for a second, and my worry turned into ice-cold fear. I knew that look, and it wasn't Mike's.

"What happened?" he asked, and that voice wasn't Mike's, either.

"You passed out," I said, and willed my heart to slow down its erratic thumping. "I pulled over because you scared the shit out of me."

"Passed out?" he repeated, then straightened in his seat and looked out the window as if to get his bearings.

"We were talking about what you might manage for dinner, and then you were just out cold. I was about to call the dentist's office to find out what to do."

Lies, of course, but now more than ever I knew I had to keep lying as convincingly as possible, that I had to convince Smike nothing had happened besides an odd fainting spell.

"Don't remember," he said, frowning. "Last thing I recall is the doctor putting this mask over my face -- "

"Lucky you," I replied, pasting on a smile. "Not too many people are able to sleep through a dental procedure."

"Is that normal?"

"No," I said, then added, "but neither are you."

That comment seemed to take him aback a little, but then he gave the smallest of shrugs. "True."

"So are you OK?" I asked. "Because if you feel at all wobbly, maybe I should take you to the emergency room or something. Huntington Memorial is just up the street."

"I'm fine," he said, after a brief pause. Probably he had stopped to assess how he really did feel before answering my question.

"We can go home then?"

Smike nodded. "Yes. Take me home."

His words sent a chill up my spine. After Mike's revelations, I didn't know whether Smike only meant for me to take him back to the house we shared in San Marino, or whether that simple sentence had a hidden, darker meaning. After all, Mike has said that Sauron needed me to return to Middle Earth...

And once there, what would he do with me? Obviously he didn't care for me, didn't want me for anything except as a necessary component to his homecoming in Middle Earth. Kill me, most likely, since I wasn't so full of myself as to think he really cared about using me as his sex toy in the future. No, he'd done it here as a way to torment me, but I was fooling myself if I thought I'd live long enough to experience anything except a quick death once I left this world.

I threw a surreptitious glance in his direction. Smike had closed his eyes again, so he was probably still feeling fairly weak. My hands clenched around the steering wheel in impotent fury. If only I didn't care about saving Mike. If Sauron had possessed someone I didn't give a rat's ass about, I would have been tempted to just wrap my hands around his throat and squeeze the life out of him then and there. Better a life spent in prison for murder than being an accessory to the enslavement of an entire world.

But that solution wasn't a solution at all. All I could do was take Smike home and pray that all the practice I'd gotten in presenting a false front to him these past few months would keep him from discovering that I now knew the truth about him. If I slipped even once -- if he ever guessed --

_Don't go there_, I thought. _Don't even let it enter your mind. You've tricked him this long. You can do it a little while longer._

I didn't know when the breaking point would come. I could only hope that when it finally did arrive, it wouldn't break me along with it...

29


	21. Desperation

Whew, another long one, but you guys don't seem to mind too much. :-P Two more to go after this! Thank you for all your reviews -- I know I say that over and over again, but it's the simple truth. Also, I've put a poll up in my LiveJournal (link is in my profile) about what type of fic I should write after I finish my two current WIPS. You need to be signed into LJ to vote in the poll, unfortunately, but you can also just leave a comment with your vote if you don't have an LJ account. Thanks! I'll leave the poll up until I'm done with both this and _The Overlooked_ (probably another two or three weeks).

* * *

Twenty-One: Desperation

The following day was a disaster.

OK, let me rephrase that -- my meeting with Tricia was a disaster. Needless to say, I hadn't slept very well the night before. Smike of course was in no shape to do much of anything except carefully chew the macaroni and cheese I'd made for him and then pass out around eight-thirty, so at least I didn't have to worry about trying to fend off another round of Dark Lord nookie. Still, I kept waking up at odd hours, starting at sounds that had somehow penetrated my uneasy slumber. When I dragged myself out of bed at seven the next morning, I had to stand under the shower with the hot water pounding on my head for a good twenty minutes before I began to feel like anything remotely resembling a human being.

Smike complained that his jaw still hurt, so I dug an oatmeal packet out of the back of the pantry and fixed that for him. The bowl of lumpy oatmeal earned me a dubious glance, but he dug into it after making a face. I guessed that porridge hadn't been on the menu too often at Barad Dûr.

I asked him if he needed me to run any errands for him, since I was going to be meeting Tricia at ten-thirty anyway. After directing another scowl at the bowl of oatmeal, he told me that he still needed to drop off the remainder of the finals he'd graded, and since he didn't really feel like driving yet...

Part of me was less than thrilled at the prospect of going by Caltech and possibly bumping into someone who'd witnessed Smike's behavior at the reception on Saturday night, but I offered to drop the paperwork off for him anyway. It gave me an excuse to be out of the house a little longer, if nothing else. Will and I had already agreed to meet at his church office as soon as I was done with Tricia. I would have preferred to see him at his house, but he also had meetings scheduled for most of the day and really couldn't get away.

So around ten I took the manila folder Smike handed to me, let him kiss me good-bye (even allowing that much made my skin crawl, considering Mike's revelations of the day before), and drove off to meet Tricia Dupree at the florist.

Anyone who's planned a wedding knows that flowers are way up there on the Important Wedding Items list. Not so big as the dress, of course, and maybe a tiny bit below the food, but still of paramount importance. Still, it was the sort of thing that required my utmost attention...and I just didn't have it to give.

I sat at a table in the back of the shop with Tricia and Margot Wang, the floral designer, as they opened book after book of lush-looking flower arrangements. My focus seemed to have deserted me, and I just sort of nodded listlessly as the parade of designs flipped by under my nose. To this day I don't think I could honestly say what any of them actually looked like.

About fifteen minutes into this travesty, Tricia finally shut the book with a snap and fixed me with a malevolent glare. "I really wish you would pay attention," she growled. "This is _important_."

All I could do for a few seconds was look at her blankly. Then the meaning of what she had just said finally sank in, and I began to laugh hysterically.

Both Tricia and Margot looked at me in alarm. After all, while most brides are under a lot of stress, they don't tend to go off into the sort of maniacal laughter that usually indicates a trip to the rubber room is in order. But I couldn't help it -- there I was, desperately trying to find a way to prevent Sauron from returning to Middle Earth while at the same time attempting to save the friend whose body he'd commandeered (and let's not forget the nice little tidbit about the friendly local clergyman who'd stepped in to offer his aid looking exactly like the noble lover I'd seen murdered back in good ol' ME) -- and I was getting lectured by a wedding planner as to what was important and what wasn't?

Eventually I managed to choke back the laughter and then said, "Sorry about that."

Tricia and Margot continued to look at me with narrowed eyes, as if they half-expected me to pull an Uzi out of my purse and start shooting up the place.

"It's just, um -- well, Mike's been sick, and I guess I'm a little tired," I added, knowing even as I said them how lame the words sounded.

"Right," Tricia said, and shifted the pile of floral design books off to her left, toward Margot. Who knows -- maybe she expected me to pick one of them up and start smacking her in the head with it. Actually, that wasn't a bad idea.

"Maybe we should reschedule," Margot interjected, producing a date book out of nowhere. She opened it, then flipped past December to January. "I'm fairly booked up for the rest of the month, but maybe after the first of the year?"

"Sure," I replied. Actually, that would take some of the pressure off. I hoped that by then I'd have the whole Sauron situation resolved. By January I'd either be dead or Smike-free -- in either case, I wouldn't be requiring Margot's services, although I didn't bother to tell her that.

"How about Tuesday, the ninth? We'll be well past the holidays by then."

I nodded, and Margot made a neat notation in her calendar. "Excellent. Then I'll see you next month." Her words were friendly but had a definite note of dismissal. No doubt she wanted the loony bipolar bride out of her shop as soon as possible.

Taking her cue, I stood, muttered a thank-you, then exited as gracefully as I could. Unfortunately, Tricia followed after me, fuming.

"Do you know how difficult it is to get an appointment with Margot Wang?" she demanded, after we were outside and safely out of earshot. "I have clients lined up to see her!"

"And now she has more time for them," I replied sweetly. "Look, I just wasn't in the mood today. As if Ms. Wang is going to give up a chance to do the Westerfield wedding just because I was a little out of it!"

"That's not the point," Tricia snapped. "The point is that you've wasted both her and my time by not being prepared -- "

In response to that remark, I planted my hands on my hips and glared at her. "Oh, please," I shot back. "Like you're not going to bill for these hours?" Tricia's heavily mascaraed gaze slipped away, and she wouldn't meet my eyes. Knowing I was right didn't improve my mood much, and I said sourly, "Yeah, I thought so. Anyway, this wasn't premeditated, so just go off and get yourself a Cosmo or whatever else you need to calm down, and we'll get back into this later. I've got stuff to do."

Having delivered my parting shot, I stalked off to my car and threw myself into the driver's seat, pulling out from my parking space at the curb with a squeal that sounded dramatic but certainly didn't do my tires any good. Good thing the light controlling the intersection just before the shop had been in my favor, or I might have had to deal with a sideswipe fender-bender on top of everything else. However, I managed to escape unscathed and headed north on Los Robles, my mood not improved by the fact that I was meeting Will at the church instead of at his home, as I'd hoped.

Of course, would that really have made a difference? Impassioned kiss in his damp garage aside, Will hadn't shown a lot of initiative when it came to rekindling our relationship. Maybe that was just the wisdom of age showing -- we had enough on our plate without sneaking behind Smike's back like a couple of teenagers trying to find a good place to mess around and not get caught by our parents. Time enough to figure all that out after we got rid of Sauron, I supposed, but I still felt as if something had seriously gone wrong with the universe.

At least this time I knew to head directly into the subterranean parking structure located under the restaurants that bordered All Saints. The weather had continued mild, as if trying to make up for the violent electrical storm of the previous week. I found I didn't need the cardigan I'd thrown on over my short-sleeved blouse as I left the house that morning, so I shrugged out of the sweater and draped it over one arm.

Even at this early hour -- by then it was a little past eleven in the morning -- people were already heading into the restaurants, probably trying to get a jump on the lunch-hour crowds. I watched them hurry across the plaza with an odd mixture of detachment and envy. Somehow I felt disconnected from everyone around me, as if I'd lost the ability to relate to other people and their normal concerns. At the same time, I wished violently that I could return to being as normal as they were -- that this drama would just play itself out already, and I could get on with my life. If I even had a life to get on with, of course.

All Saints looked pretty much the same, with the exception of some wreaths hung on the doorways to the main church and the separate building that housed the offices and meeting rooms. They brought home to me the fact that Christmas was less than three weeks away. I could hardly bring myself to think about the holiday and all the chaos associated with it -- surely this situation would have resolved itself by then.

The dingy hallways were unaltered as well, save for some red and gold tinsel that now encircled the bulletin boards. I made my way to Will's office, then noticed the door was shut. Stifling a curse, I glanced at my watch. Well, I was a little early, but I hadn't stopped to think that I might be impinging on one of his appointments.

Not sure what to do, I hesitated outside the door. Then it opened, and an attractive blonde woman in her early thirties stepped out, throwing a cheery "Thank you, Father Gordon!" over her shoulder as she exited. She gave me a quick once-over as she passed, then shrugged, obviously dismissing me as a non-threat.

Scowling, I stalked into Will's office and slammed the door behind me. "Glad to see you're taking such good care of your parishioners," I snapped.

Looking a little startled by my abrupt entrance, Will raised an eyebrow and gave me a puzzled glance. "Excuse me?"

"Well, it's good to know that you're willing to keep me waiting because you're too busy seeing some hot blonde."

"Hot blon -- " He stopped, and then shook his head. "Sarah, I assure you that my relationship with Courtney Woodruff is entirely professional."

"Well, yours with her may be, but I'm not sure about hers with _you_," I returned. Maybe I was young and not super-experienced in the ways of the big world, but I'd seen the sort of look Ms. Woodruff had given me before. It was the look you got from other girls who were sizing you up to see if you were pretty enough or hot enough to be a threat to their boyfriends or even just the guys they were interested in.

Appearing nonplussed, Will just said, "Why don't you sit down, Sarah?"

Arguing with him would have just sounded childish, so I grabbed the shabby blonde-wood chair that faced his desk and sat, then dropped my purse and sweater on the floor next to me.

"Why don't you tell me what's really wrong?" he asked quietly.

I hadn't gotten a chance to call him and tell him about what had happened with Smike -- up until this morning, I hadn't been able to leave the house, and since we'd already planned to meet after I got together with Tricia at the florist's, I figured it could wait. Besides, what did I expect Will to do about it, anyway? Still, I knew I should let him know what had happened. Now that the moment had come, however, I felt unexpectedly awkward.

The silence grew more uncomfortable, and he said, "How about a cup of tea?"

_Is that your remedy for everything?_ I thought, but I just nodded. Maybe something warm would help ease the tension in my throat.

Will busied himself with a pot of water that sat on the little hot plate he kept on top of one of the bookcases. After rummaging through a desk drawer, he found a spare mug and poured some hot water into it, then dropped in a teabag and handed the mug to me before returning to his seat behind the desk. "There you go."

"Thanks," I said, wrapping my hands around the mug. The tea wouldn't be ready to drink for a little bit, but for some reason it felt good to hold onto that piece of warm ceramic. "Look, it's about Smike -- "

The keen gray eyes sharpened. "What happened?"

"Well, he had to go to the dentist -- " Stumbling a little over my words, I related the story of the nitrous oxide and how Mike's personality had apparently won out while under the influence of the anesthetic gas. What really hung me up was whether I should tell Will how Mike had confessed that he loved me; I'd danced around the issue before but had never been completely honest with Will on that little detail. Still, I couldn't figure out a way to avoid it now. Maybe if I just said it really fast --

"…then Mike told me he loved me, and he was sorry, and -- "

"He told you he loved you," Will repeated.

"Um...yes," I admitted, feeling my cheeks flush with embarrassment. It sounded so awful with him echoing Mike's words. Not knowing what else to do, I took a cautious sip of tea.

Will's expression was so neutral that I couldn't get a read on what he thought of my comment. For a few seconds he remained silent. Then he folded his hands on the top of his desk and gave me a penetrating look. "And how did you feel when he told you that?"

What the hell did Will think this was -- another one of his counseling sessions? "I don't know," I replied. At least I didn't have any trouble identifying my current emotions -- right then I felt angry and a little helpless. "It all happened so fast...one second Mike was there telling me this stuff, and the next minute Smike's back, and I'm having to lie my ass off to keep him from suspecting something. I didn't have time to stop and think about it!"

"But now?"

"Now what?" I said angrily. "Do you want me to tell you that it makes a difference? Well, it doesn't! I've told you all along that you're the one I want to be with, that you're the person I love. Why do you have such a hard time dealing with that?"

Again Will said nothing for a bit, just sat there and watched me carefully. I saw a flicker of some emotion I couldn't read pass across his features when I said I loved him, but for the most part, that expressionless mask stayed in place. That was one thing he definitely shared with Gorendil -- the world's greatest poker face.

Finally he said, sounding a little sad, "Sometimes there's a great deal of difference between what we desire and what we truly need."

I blinked. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"I mean, Sarah, that just because you want something -- and just because I might want it, too -- doesn't mean it's what's truly best for either one of us."

How could he sit there looking at me so calmly, saying things that made my heart feel as if it had just been dumped in a vat of liquid nitrogen? I clenched my fingers around the mug of tea I held and asked, "So what do you think I need?"

Will smiled then, but in a weary sort of way, as if he were having trouble mustering the energy to do so convincingly. "Tell me more about Mike."

"What's to tell?" I demanded. "He's my friend. That's it."

Something in Will's cool gray eyes made me feel as if I were a virus being studied under a particularly powerful microscope. "And you've never felt anything more than a friendship toward him."

"No," I said flatly, but even as I made the denial, I knew that some small part of it was a lie. Oh, I'd certainly never wanted to be anything but Mike's friend, had always told my friends (and parents) that he wasn't my type, but all these months I'd survived Smike's touch solely by thinking it was just Mike sharing that bed with me. Not what I wanted, but still infinitely better than being compelled to remember it was Sauron who touched me and forced himself inside me.

As I sat there, I had a sudden vivid flash of prom night from my senior year of high school -- my date had bailed out on me because of a sudden attack of tonsillitis, and Mike had stepped in to take over escort duties after I'd had a minor nervous breakdown about missing prom, having to return my dress, canceling my hair appointment, yadda yadda. At the time I'd just thought he'd done it because he was my friend, although hindsight told me now that obviously he hadn't wanted to pass up the chance to spend such a traditionally romantic evening with me. The whole night he'd been a perfect gentleman, but I remembered his reluctance to step out on the dance floor with me, especially for a slow dance. I'd chalked it up to general awkwardness in that area -- after all, I didn't really expect a science geek like Mike to know much about cutting a rug -- but as it turned out, he was a pretty decent dancer. "Cotillion," he'd said briefly, in answer to my somewhat startled question. I did recall how tense he had seemed, how he'd kept me at a correct distance during dances that had most couples hanging off one another, the way he'd held me as if he'd thought I was a soap bubble that might break. Again, I'd just figured his caution was due to the discomfort of having to be so close to a girl he'd only thought of as a friend, but now I realized it was probably more because he'd been scared stiff that he might reveal something of his true feelings toward me.

All in all, though, the evening had gone much better than I'd thought, since I'd had gloomy visions of sitting the whole thing out while Mike steadfastly refused to dance at all. He had declined going to any of the after-parties, which at the time I thought was awfully staid of him -- until I found out later that most of my friends had spent the evening getting so drunk they ended up puking all over their fancy dresses. No thanks.

What I hadn't expected, though, was to dream about Mike that night, to see us standing underneath a chandelier in some improbably glitzy ballroom that looked halfway between the ballroom from _Beauty and the Beast_ and the big pink hall at the Biltmore downtown where one of my second cousins had her wedding. Unreal as that might have been, what was even worse was that I dreamed of him kissing me, and of me kissing him back with way more gusto than I should have displayed toward someone I thought of "only as a friend." However, we all have crazy dreams, right? I mean, I once dreamed I was waltzing with Michael Jackson in the parking lot at my school. Frankly, I think he's scary beyond words and wouldn't want to go within ten feet of him, let alone look as if I'm auditioning for _Dancing With the Stars_ with the guy. All I'm saying is that your subconscious can do some pretty strange things.

I realized that Will had continued to regard me carefully during my ruminations, as if he were waiting to see some sort of betraying emotion in my face. Of course I had no idea what he saw (if anything), but his scrutiny made me both angry and uncomfortable.

"Is there a point to any of this?" I demanded.

Another man might have been offended by my tone. After all, I wasn't taking much care to hide my anger or frustration. Also, one of the things I really, really hated was having someone point something out to me that I should have known all along. And what Will was trying to say, I really didn't want to hear.

"The point?" Will repeated. "Only that I think you haven't been entirely truthful with yourself."

The unspoken words "or with me" seemed to hang in the air between us. What was I supposed to say to that? Fling out more denials? Confess that maybe I hadn't stopped to examine my feelings because I really didn't want to know the truth?

"Are you saying that you don't believe me when I tell you that I love you?" I asked, marveling a little at how calm I sounded. Then again, I had a tendency to hold myself together during times of crisis and then let myself fall apart over the minor stuff when I knew it didn't really matter.

"I'm not saying that at all," Will replied immediately. "And I won't deny that I have feelings for you, wrong as they still seem to me here, in this world and time. You've made some very convincing arguments for having a relationship, and I'd be lying to you if I said I didn't want to believe them." He paused, and I could see his hands clench around one another as they lay on the tabletop, knuckles showing white with the pressure. Then he sighed and shook his head. "We probably shouldn't be having this conversation now."

_Oh, great_, I thought, _bring that up when it's already too late_. "When should we be having it?" I said.

"I don't know. When the danger is past. When we've defeated Sauron. If nothing else, what you've told me today shows that this can't go on much longer."

I remarked, "You sound very confident."

He gave me another one of those weary smiles. "If I can't muster the necessary faith to believe that we'll prevail in this, then I'm a hypocrite, aren't I? You told me a while ago that you weren't sure if you believed in God. That's your choice, but I do believe in Him -- and I also believe we were put in this situation in order to make things right."

"So I should just relax, and trust in divine Providence?" I didn't make much of an attempt to hide the derision in my voice.

"That's not what I'm saying. 'The Lord helps those as help themselves,' as they say." Frowning slightly, he leaned forward, as if to emphasize his next point. "But having that belief backing you up as you face Sauron could make the difference."

I didn't know what to think. It probably did help to have such unshakeable faith, but I hadn't been raised to that sort of blind belief, and I didn't know if I could start now. However, it seemed obvious to me that I had to at least try to believe that we would triumph somehow. Maybe in the aftermath I could find the right words to convince Will that we really were meant to be together, that all the constraints this world might place on us didn't matter very much after all. And that, crazy high school dreams notwithstanding, Mike wasn't anything more to me than a friend...

A tentative knock sounded at the door to Will's office, and I jumped a little. He glanced over at the clock. "Looks like my noon appointment is early," he said, and I had a hard time trying to figure out whether the odd note in his voice was regret or relief.

Trying to adopt a tone of airy unconcern, I replied, "No problem. I have to drop off some exams at Caltech for Smike anyway. He still didn't feel up to driving today." Leaning down, I retrieved my purse and sweater from their place on the ground, then stood.

Will rose as well and came around his desk to stand next to me. We hadn't been that close for several days, and I could feel my heart begin to race. I swallowed, and said, "Good-bye, Will."

His gaze rested on my face for a few seconds. Then, without warning, his mouth slammed down on mine, lips pressing against me as I floundered for a few seconds before responding with every ounce of energy I could throw into the embrace. I had to convince him somehow that this was right.

I don't know how successful I was, but when we pulled away from each other a bit later -- only because the knocking came at the door once again -- I could tell he looked shaken. He reached out to push a stray tendril of hair back from my forehead, and said softly, "Good-bye, Sarah."

Knowing there wasn't anything else to say, I just turned from him and hurried out, my gaze directed toward the floor, my cheeks burning. I didn't even glance up to see who had been waiting at Will's door. Although I knew I hadn't done anything wrong, still I felt a wave of guilt at kissing a clergyman right on the grounds of his own church. It wasn't until I'd climbed into my car that I began to wonder whether or not that had been a kiss of farewell...

* * *

As luck would have it, when I walked into the division office to drop off Smike's exams, the first person I bumped into was Jess, the grad student I'd met at the holiday reception. She looked a little startled to see me there, and again I felt a wave of heat wash over my face. So much for thinking that I could just drop in anonymously, hand the folder over to the department secretary, and run right back out again. 

"Um, hi," I said, knowing there was no escape and therefore trying to put on a bold front, as if Smike hadn't insulted me in front of a bunch of his fellow T.A.s just a few days earlier.

"Hi," she replied, looking a little uncomfortable as well. Her gaze wandered to the manila folder I held.

"Dropping off some paperwork for Mike," I offered. "He came down with the worst flu over the weekend -- no wonder he was so out of it."

"Right," Jess said, sounding dubious. "Drew mentioned something about that. High fever and everything?"

"Oh, yeah. It was pretty bad. I almost took him to the hospital, but then the ibuprofen kicked in and brought his temperature down."

She nodded, then asked, "Is he feeling better?"

"Some, but he still didn't feel like driving over here. That's why I'm dropping this off for him." I managed a smile. "I hope that's not against the rules or anything."

"I wouldn't think so. It's not as if you're a student here or something that would compromise the validity of the test results."

I glanced around the office. Like school administrative offices the world over, it was decorated with a mismatched collection of office furniture, the desk covered in piles of paperwork. However, I couldn't see anyone manning the secretary's desk.

"Is the secretary out?" I asked, glancing down at my watch. It was just a little bit before noon, but maybe she'd taken an early lunch.

"She just had to run over to the dean's office for a minute. She should be back pretty soon." Jess paused, and gave me a sharp look. "I know it's none of my business, but -- is everything all right?"

I wondered if Will's kiss had left some sort of mark on my face. Maybe a big scarlet "A."

"Sure it is," I lied, then handed her the excuse I'd been using with everyone else. "I guess I'm just sort of tired after playing nurse all weekend."

"Oh, I guess that would explain it." Another one of those significant pauses. "Look, you can just tell me to butt out if you want, but I've known Mike for a while -- we were undergrads together -- and he's seemed sort of different lately."

"Different?" I repeated, my voice squeaking a little. Damn it.

She shot me an inquiring look, but since I didn't say anything else, she went on, "I'm not sure exactly how -- just every once in a while his responses seem a little...off. He looks like Mike, he sounds like Mike, but he doesn't _seem_ like Mike, if you know what I mean."

My breath seemed to be strangling in my throat. "Um...I haven't noticed anything."

"Maybe it's just me." Jess shrugged, then gave a forced-sounding little laugh. "Oh, just tell me I'm jealous and get it over with."

"Jealous?" I said, not sure I had heard her right.

"Oh, yeah," she replied, looking a little surprised. "You mean Mike never told you how I kept asking him out our junior year?"

I somehow managed to respond, "Must have slipped his mind.."

"Well, now I feel like an idiot." She shook her head, then glanced away from me as the door to the office opened and a trim middle-aged woman stepped in. "Oh, there's Dora," Jess added, sounding relieved. "She can take those exams for you."

I could understand Jess's relief -- we'd been treading on extremely uncomfortable ground. Pasting on a public smile, I turned to Dora and said, "Hi, I'm Sarah -- Mike Westerfield's fiancée. He's still down with the flu, but he asked me to turn in these exams for him."

Dora took the folder from me. "That's Mike -- so responsible. I have to remind myself that he's so much younger than most of the other T.A.s. Tell him I hope he feels better soon."

"I will," I replied, then threw another smile at Jess before hurrying over to the door and making my escape. To my surprise, she followed after me.

"I hope I didn't weird you out," she said.

"No. It's OK -- I mean, I guess I shouldn't be surprised that someone else would have been interested in him. He's a great guy."

"Yes, he is," she said, and then, "I'm not the only one, either -- I think he turned down about half the girls in our department before we all decided he must be gay. Guess you proved that one wrong."

"Guess so," I replied.

She grinned. "Tell Mike I hope he feels better soon." And with that she strode off across the quad, the breeze catching in that edgy bob she wore so well.

I watched her go, feeling slightly discombobulated. Before then I'd had no idea that Mike was an object of lust for so many of the girls he went to school with. And the fact that he'd turned them all down...

_Holding out for you?_ my brain jeered.

I shook my head, told my brain to shut up, then got in the car and drove home.

When I got there, Smike was nowhere in evidence. I thought that was a little odd, considering his claim to still be too weak to drive, but maybe he'd decided to take advantage of the unusually mild weather and sit in the sun in the backyard. The yard, however, proved to be as unoccupied as the house. I wandered back inside, then called out, "Smike?"

"Down here," I heard in reply.

Frowning, I walked into the kitchen, then realized he had to be down in the basement. Probably messing around with his vats of water or whatever. Peering down the cellar stairs, I asked, "Are you OK?"

"Sure," he said, sounding a little muffled. "Can you come down here for a second? I want to show you something."

I didn't like the sound of that at all, but I couldn't think of a way to refuse without sounding overly suspicious. So I began to cautiously make my way down the stairs, then said, "I dropped off your exams for you. Dora says she hopes you feel better soon."

His reply came after a short pause. "Good."

The door to the basement stood ajar. I stepped inside, then paused in amazement.

In the open center of the room was a -- well, I don't know exactly how to describe it, except as a wavy ring of flickering light that seemed to pulse light, then dark. And in the center was a blackness darker than any night I'd ever seen...except maybe the void that had swallowed me after I fell into Mount Doom. The skin along my scalp and my exposed arms prickled. The air smelled like ozone, as if a bolt of lightning had struck nearby.

"What the hell is that?" I gasped.

Smike stood off to one side, grinning like a madman. "You like it?"

It was beautiful in a way, but also horrifying in its very wrongness. Something like that simply shouldn't exist. And as I stared at the wavering shape, which seemed to shimmer in the darkness like lava flows at night, I knew exactly what it was.

Sauron had finally created his gateway.

"You didn't," I said slowly. Even though the evidence was there right before my eyes, part of my brain refused to accept what it saw.

"Oh, yes, I did," he replied. "So simple, actually, once I got the final calculations figured out. And of course it helped to have you out of the house this morning."

"So why haven't you gone already?" I asked. "You've opened the gateway -- why not just go back to Middle Earth and be done with it?"

"I'm afraid it's not that simple," Smike said, beginning to walk slowly toward me. A portion of my brain was telling me to run, but I knew there was no place I could go to escape him. "I need you here -- before you arrived, it was much less formed than it is now. But even you aren't enough to give it the power it needs."

Cold sweat had begun to break out along the back of my neck, dripping down my spine and soaking the thin cotton blouse I wore. "I don't understand."

All this time Smike had held his right hand down against his side, hiding something he held. Then he lifted his arm and opened his hand. For a few seconds I just stared at the object it held, not comprehending what it was. Then it seemed to flash into sharp focus, and I felt as if he had just kicked me in the stomach.

It was my little Virgin Mobile phone, the one I had bought to keep in touch with Will. The one I had thought was locked securely in my glove compartment.

"You see," Smike went on, still smiling, "all three of us need to be here for the portal to open fully." He reached out, and tucked the phone into my suddenly nerveless fingers. "Go ahead and call your boyfriend, Sarah." The dark eyes met mine, afire with malicious joy. "Tell William Gordon you need him here. Now."

48


	22. Portals

Boy, this one just boiled out of me. That's usually what happens when I get close to the end of a story -- I tend to write really, really fast. Just the wrap-up after this. And don't forget to go vote in my LiveJournal poll -- link's in my profile.

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Twenty-Two: Portals

For a few seconds I just stood there, hand still extended, the little silver phone an unwelcome weight in my palm. Then I stammered, "How did you -- where -- "

"I assume your incoherent babblings are an attempt to discover how I found that." Smike gestured toward the phone. "Really, Sarah, you're too trusting. All this sneaking around, all your pathetic attempts to keep your contact with Gordon a secret -- did you ever stop to think that all I had to do was take your car keys while you were asleep, go out to the garage, and have a look around that ridiculous vehicle of yours?"

Actually, it hadn't occurred to me at all. And here I'd thought I was being so clever. Stupid, Sarah, really stupid. "Guess I'm just the trusting type," I said at last, attempting a brittle sarcasm that I was sure Smike saw right through.

He smiled. It was the sort of smile that made me want to punch him in the face. "Part of your charm, I suppose. At any rate, your time away from the house didn't quite add up to the length of your hours at school or even your meetings with Tricia. I wondered what you were hiding. So I took a look, and found the phone." Still with that half-contemptuous smile twisting his lips, he continued, "Interesting that you would have a second phone, and one with only two numbers saved in the contacts. So I did a reverse phone number lookup through a company I found on the Internet, and discovered that both numbers apparently were registered to one William Gordon."

"Impressive," I remarked. I had to clench my jaw slightly to keep my voice from trembling. "You missed your calling -- you should have gone to work for the CIA."

"Oh, I'll admit that it was rather amusing to play detective for a while. The first number was a cell phone; imagine my surprise when I saw that the second one was actually this William Gordon person's extension at a church, of all things." Smike raised an eyebrow. "I didn't think that you had suddenly found God, so I took a drive over to All Saints to see who the mysterious man might be. I'll admit that it was a little off-putting to discover William Gordon turned out to be a twin to my former lieutenant. What a blow! And here I thought you were starting to fall for me."

"Don't kid yourself," I replied. "Frankly, you make me want to puke."

"Ah, the truth finally comes out. Don't worry, Sarah -- I find you appealing whether you're pretending to cooperate or actively resisting me. Actually, the resistance adds a certain...flavor...to our encounters."

For a brief second I considered hurling the phone at his head and bolting out of there. It might startle him enough for me to get away, and it certainly couldn't do any permanent damage to Mike's body. Unless my aim turned out to be spectacularly bad and I hit him in the eye or something.

Some inner voice told me that was a bad idea, however, so instead I just shoved the phone in my jeans pocket and said, "I'm so glad to hear that you're hot for my bod no matter what. But if you think I'm going to call Will and get him involved in all this -- "

"Oh, you are," Smike replied, then stepped closer. He reached out toward me, and I flinched.

But all he did was dig his fingers into the front pocket of my jeans and retrieve the phone. "You can call him -- or I'll just text him using your phone and get him over here that way. However, I do think a voice call would add the necessary urgency."

"Leave him out of this," I said. "Do whatever you want to me. But he's never done anything to you."

Smike's dark eyes widened at that, and I recoiled slightly. Across his face passed an expression of such utter hatred, such all-encompassing rage, that for a second he didn't even look human. "Never done anything to me?" he demanded. "Besides plotting behind my back and attempting to destroy me, after ages of service? Besides forsaking his true master and allowing himself to be swayed by a mere woman? And now, in this world, deceiving me with the woman who was supposed to be mine?"

Some betraying emotion must have crossed my face, because after he asked that last question, Smike's expression transformed from utter hatred to a sort of mocking satisfaction. "Or did he?" Smike asked softly. "Perhaps his better nature won out. Did you pursue him, only to find that he didn't find you quite so tempting in this world?"

Of course I didn't answer, but I couldn't help shifting my gaze away from his. Smike's mouth curved upward in a smile of triumph. "Poor Sarah," he went on. "That must have been a disappointment for you. How noble that you seek to protect him, after he spurned your advances."

"You don't know anything about it!" I burst out. "And if you think I'm going to lure Will here just because you've said something to upset me, you're nuts. I'm not going to do a goddamn thing for you -- not even if you kill me." Of course, with that taunt I was merely calling his bluff; Smike had already said he needed me present for the portal to open all the way, so he didn't dare murder me. Even so, I felt a queasy sensation in the pit of my stomach after I delivered that last retort.

Obviously Smike had figured that out for himself as well, because the nasty smile evaporated, only to be replaced by a grim line. "Very well," he said. "I don't need your cooperation, after all." With that he opened up the phone and began typing in a text message. In desperation, I reached out toward it, thinking I could knock the phone out of his hand and maybe break it on the cold cement floor of the basement, but no such luck. Faster than I would have thought possible, he grasped me by the wrist and forced me to the floor. I gasped in pain and shock -- I wouldn't have believed that Mike's slender fingers could cause such agony.

"Naughty girl," Smike said, shaking his head. "When will you stop deluding yourself that you're any sort of match for me?" Just as abruptly, he released me, then hit a few more keys on the phone before shutting it with a snap. "There now. We'll allow the good priest a bit of time to act on the message -- he might be in the middle of church services or something." There was no mistaking the sarcasm in his tone. Obviously Sauron didn't have a lot of respect for a man of the cloth.

I wanted to cry...or wrap my hands around his throat and squeeze until he turned blue. However, neither option would prevent Will from charging to my rescue, so instead I settled for a muttered, "I hate you."

"Hate away," he said cheerfully. "It won't change anything, after all."

To my surprise, he reached down and pulled me back up to my feet, then pushed a stray hair away from my face. I tried not to wince.

"Is it so awful?" Smike asked. "I'm offering to make you queen of Middle Earth, and what do I get? 'I hate you.'"

"You're lying," I said. "Maybe you fooled me once, but I'm on to your game. Once you're safely back in Middle Earth, you sure as hell won't have any use for me. Then I'm as good as dead." _At least then it will be over_, I thought. _Dying's starting to sound awfully attractive just about now..._

Smike still looked amused. "Is that what you really believe? I'd say I was shocked to hear how poorly you think of me, but I suppose that's to be expected. However, I certainly don't plan to kill you. Why do that and deprive myself of further amusement?"

Since I'd already told Smike I hated him, I couldn't think of a witty response to that question. I also couldn't figure out whether he was telling me the truth or simply coming up with new and exciting ways to torment me. Either way, my future didn't look too rosy.

"Whatever," I said wearily. "You'd just better watch yourself if and when Will shows up. No offense, but he looks as if he could put you through a wall." Which was no more than a simple fact. Smike might have been bulking up a bit recently, but Will still had to have a few inches in height and probably at least forty pounds in weight on him. In a fair fight, Smike wouldn't stand a chance.

Not that I expected him to fight fair, of course.

Smike just gave me a thin smile. "I'm not worried."

Well, that made one of us. We lapsed into an uneasy silence for a moment or two. The portal, or gateway, or whatever you wanted to call it, never ceased in its flickering dance from light to dark and back again. It gave the basement a sort of Halloween feeling, like one of those haunted houses my high school sponsored as fundraisers, where they had strobe lights set up in the corner and you could never really tell who was coming from which direction. I didn't like it much even as make-believe and liked it even less here and now. Besides, even though Smike had said he needed Will present for the thing to actually work, I couldn't help feeling that all it would take was one false step, and I'd fall right into the portal, like Alice through the looking glass. I doubted I'd meet anyone as benign as a white rabbit and a mad hatter in there, although I suspected there was a distinct possibility that someone on the other side might want to chop off my head.

"So how did you do it?" I asked at last. Maybe engaging Smike in conversation wasn't the greatest idea, but despite everything, I was curious.

One eyebrow lifted. "You wouldn't understand even if I told you."

He was probably right, but his reply still infuriated me. "Oh, right, I can't comprehend anything more complicated than a grocery list, can I?" Crossing my arms, I glared back at him. 'Decorative,' wasn't that the word you used? Fine. It's something to do with tachyons, isn't it? Did you figure out a way to focus them down here? Maybe using all these water tanks as reflectors or something?"

Smike gave me a look of grudging respect. "Something like that."

Under different circumstances, I might have been pleased, but right then his answer only angered me further. "Well, why don't you tell me the rest of it, since I figured that much out? Don't worry -- you're going to be spiriting me off to Middle Earth anyway, so it's not as if I'm going to spill your deep, dark secrets to anyone."

"I don't care to," Smike replied, his eyes narrowing.

For some reason, that comment made me angrier than ever. "You don't _care_ to?" I demanded. "Well, that's great. You know what? I don't care to go back to Middle Earth with you! I don't care to have you possessing my best friend! And I certainly don't care to have you dragging William Gordon into your -- "

"Dragging me into what?" Will said.

I must have been so busy shouting at Smike that I hadn't even heard Will's footsteps on the stairs which led down into the basement. He stood in the doorway, hair looking a little mussed, face paling visibly in the odd half-light as he stared at the gateway Smike had created. If someone had asked, I would have said there was no way Will could have made it from All Saints to San Marino that quickly. Then again, that Barracuda he drove had some severe muscle. Good thing he hadn't been pulled over and gotten a ticket.

Smike looked like the cat that had swallowed the canary. "Ah, Father Gordon. So good of you to show up -- and so quickly. Your devotion to Sarah is touching."

For a few seconds Will said nothing. He just held himself very still, looking from me to Smike to the portal and then back again, until his gaze finally came to rest on Smike. "Sauron," he said at last.

"Good of you to recognize me," Smike replied. "Sadly, I'm quite altered from my previous appearance, but one makes do. You, however, seem to be much the same. How did you manage that, anyway, my lord of Angmar? It seems rather unfair that I should have to go to all the trouble of procuring a new body for myself when you got to keep yours."

"Unfair?" Will repeated, sounding a little bemused. "I'm fairly certain the boy whose body you stole would have a few choice words on the fairness of the situation."

Smike waved a hand. "He wasn't doing anything with it anyway. Better at least that I should put it to good use."

During this exchange I had remained silent, but after that I burst out, "Will, he needs you here to open the gateway. Just get out while you can!"

"Too late, I think," Will said quietly, his gaze moving back toward the portal.

I don't pretend to know anything about physics or the means by which Sauron had opened the gateway between our dimension and the next, but even I could tell that the thing Sauron had created was changing, the flickering getting more and more steady, and brighter and brighter, until it finally looked like a ring of fire -- if fire could be cold and opalescent. It also looked more solid, as if the odd many-colored light was emanating from a fixed structure and not just glowing in dead space.

"Excellent," Smike said. I never thought anyone could sound happy and completely malevolent at the same time, but somehow he managed it. "Just as I thought. The combination of our three separate wave patterns has activated the portal. Now it's simply a matter of just stepping through."

Even though I knew it wouldn't do any good, I moved backward slightly. There was no way in hell I was going through that thing unless pushed. Unfortunately, I figured that was exactly what Smike had planned.

He went on, in musing tones, "But you know, I've just had the most extraordinary idea -- "

"You'll jump in, and I'll follow?" I suggested.

Giving me an indulgent smile, Smike shook his head. "Not exactly. It's clear to me that you pine for this man, this incarnation of my former lieutenant. What if were to I take his body instead?"

A wave of horror went through me. "You wouldn't dare -- "

"I think you should know by now that there's very little I wouldn't dare."

Trembling, I turned toward Will, who had the oddest expression on his face. Far from sharing the revulsion I felt, he appeared almost thoughtful.

Was he crazy? Shaking my head, I said, "You can't possibly be considering -- "

"Even if it would spare you some pain?" he asked.

"How would that spare me?" I demanded, angry tears starting to my eyes. "It wouldn't be you. Don't you see that it doesn't matter whose body it is, if Sauron's is still the mind in control?"

"It would free Mike," Will said simply, and I wanted to scream. How the hell could I possibly make such a choice? How could he even expect me to agree to such a thing?

Smike's mocking voice somehow cut past the sound of the blood pounding in my ears. "How selfless, Father Gordon. Really, you honor that collar you wear."

At that Will took a few steps forward until he faced Smike. It was the first time I had seen the two of them together, and I couldn't help contrasting Mike's slender frame with Will's sturdier form. Truly, you would think that Will could just snap Smike across his knee like a twig, but of course appearances were deceiving. Who knew what other tricks the displaced Dark Lord had up his sleeve?

When Will spoke, it was in quiet tones that I had to strain to hear. "I will agree to this -- in exchange for a promise."

Smike shot him a suspicious look. "What promise?"

"Nothing terribly difficult." One corner of Will's mouth lifted slightly. "Or, in your case, maybe it is. Only to treat her with respect, and allow yourself to care for her, if it's at all within your power to do so. She has a loving soul; she deserves no less."

I couldn't hold back the tears any longer. Sobbing, I pleaded, "Will, _don't_ -- "

He didn't even turn to look back at me. "Do you promise?"

"An easy enough promise to keep," Smike said, with a lift of the shoulders. "I don't know why it's so difficult for you to comprehend that I do care for her, in my own way. Why else would I promise to make her queen of Middle Earth?"

_He's lying_, I thought suddenly. Of course he's going to say whatever he thinks Will wants to hear --

"Don't do it!" I cried.

Again Will ignored my protests. Instead, he straightened slightly, squaring his shoulders, and asked, "What must I do?"

Smike couldn't quite conceal the smirk of evil satisfaction that pulled at the corners of his mouth. "Simple enough. We must both step into the portal, with Sarah following and holding your hand. Then you must take my hand, and I'll move into your body. This body will be left behind, and Sarah and I will be transported back to Middle Earth."

There had to be something I could do to stop this. I just couldn't think of what, not with my movements slowed by horror and my brain fogged with dread. If I ran now, that would mean leaving Smike with Will -- and I had no doubt that Smike would go ahead with the body switch whether or not I was present.

Finally, Will turned toward me. Those gray eyes met mine, and I realized this might be the last time I would ever see his own soul looking through them. "Come, Sarah," he said, and reached out a hand.

My feet moved me forward as if by a will not my own. Somehow I closed the distance between us, even though every step felt more like a mile. "You can't," I finally managed, somewhat incoherently. "You _can't_."

"I must," he replied. "Be strong, my love." It was something Gorendil would have said, and I thought I felt my heart break a second time, even as one small part of it rejoiced that he had called me "my love."

Then he straightened, and looked down into Smike's mocking face. "I'm ready."

As he said those words, I could see the muscles along his jaw tense, and an odd feeling of déjà vu hit me. Where had I seen him look just that way?

A chill moved along my spine as realization hit. I knew exactly where I had seen that look before -- right before Gorendil attacked Sauron in the Sammath Naur, a lifetime ago in Middle Earth.

But what did he have planned this time? I knew I could betray him with a single glance, so I looked down, hoping as I did so that my anguished expression hadn't changed. He reached out his hand to me, and I took it. His palm felt slightly damp; he wasn't quite as calm and cool as he appeared.

"I'm ready," he said.

Well, that made one of us. My whole body tensed, since I had no idea what to expect. Smike nodded, and the two of them stepped over the threshold of the portal, while I lagged behind by just the merest fraction of a second.

To this day I can't explain exactly what happened next. I began to follow after them, had gone so far as to put one foot into the gateway, when I saw Smike reach out for Will. In the odd, shimmering darkness of the otherworld beyond the portal, I thought I caught a glimpse of some ghostly image lift away from Mike's body, moving closer to Will. At that same instant, Will cried out, "Take him now, Sarah!" and pushed Mike toward me, back into the gate. Too shocked to do anything else, I grabbed Mike by the arm and hauled him backward, and the force of his impact against my body shoved the two of us all the way through the portal. It seemed to waver and shrink, the eerie opalescent glow flickering wildly. For the briefest second I saw Will struggling with a ghastly shape, blacker than the darkness that surrounded it. Then the gateway seemed to collapse in on itself with a subsonic rumble that pressed against my ears with agonizing force, so much so that it felt as if my eardrums might rupture. For a second everything around us slowed to a stop, as if somehow the closure of the dimensional portal had caused the entire universe to contract and stall.

Then the shockwave exploded outward, the floor shaking beneath our feet from its force. A tiny disengaged portion of my brain wondered whether the seismographs at Caltech had picked up the temblor. All the tanks of water in the basement burst simultaneously, water splashing everywhere and flowing around us, as Mike and I lay huddled there on the floor, clinging to one another like two children who had survived a shipwreck and had somehow managed to drag themselves ashore.

For the longest moment, neither one of us said anything. I could feel Mike shivering in my arms; no big surprise, as it was freezing down there in the cellar. But somehow I thought the temperature wasn't the real reason he trembled in my arms like someone in the throes of hypothermia.

"Are -- are you all right?" he asked finally, teeth chattering.

"I think so," I said. That was a good question, actually. Was I all right? Could I ever be all right again?

Very gently, I disentangled myself from his arms and stood. My jeans stuck to my legs, and my hair was plastered to my neck. I could feel the water sloshing in the ballet flats I wore. Despite the warmth of the day outside, the basement couldn't have been more than fifty degrees or so. We needed to get out of there before we really did catch a chill.

But somehow I couldn't move. I found myself standing in the center of the room, staring at the space where just a few moments ago a portal into another world had gleamed and shuddered with its own terrible light. Had I imagined the dark shape that Will had pulled from Mike? Or had he truly sacrificed himself so that my friend could finally be free?

With a groan, Mike pushed himself to his feet. In silence, he stood and gazed at the wreckage of the basement. It truly was an unholy mess -- water ankle-deep, the metal racks that had held the various receptacles twisted and bent, while the containers themselves all looked as if they had been torn apart by giant hands. He shook his head and remarked, "The superintendent's going to be pissed."

For a second I just stared at him blankly, and then I felt an incongruous giggle begin to rise in my throat. That was Mike's standard line whenever we watched a film where the sets got completely destroyed by the end -- I think he stole it from _Ghostbusters_ or something. It was also so totally _Mike_ that I felt the tiniest flicker of hope. Had something been salvaged from Sauron's desire for domination? Perhaps Gorendil finally had taken his revenge against his former master. Although in this case I wouldn't call it exactly revenge...more like justice.

"Are _you_ all right?" I asked at last. I hadn't answered his question, but I hoped he could answer mine.

For a long moment Mike remained silent. His dark eyes were somber. They were also _his_. Only now, when I could contrast his normal demeanor with the way he had looked while possessed by Sauron, did I realize how altered he had really been. "I think so," he said finally. Again he looked at the space where the portal had once stood, and a frown creased his forehead. Then a tentative smile pulled at the corners of his mouth, and he put a wondering hand up against his temple. "He's really gone."

I had to fight the urge to cry. It was too big to cry over, after all.

"Yes," I said softly, seeing in my mind the image of Will Gordon disappearing into the darkness forever. "Yes, he is."


	23. Epilogue

Endings are always bittersweet to me. Much as I love to mark another one of my stories as complete, it's hard to say good-bye to characters who've become almost as real to me as the people I know in real life. And it's always hard to say good-bye to all my wonderful readers, the people who have kept me going with the reviews and funny comments and exclamations of "how could you?" or "awesome!" or even "you suck!" This one came quickly...I mentioned in my last chapter that I tend to write very fast when I get to the end of a story...but even I didn't think I'd finish quite this soon. I hope you all enjoyed the ride! Maybe it didn't turn out the way you wanted, but sometimes that's how it goes. (And I hope you'll return to read some of my other works, but I know that not everyone enjoys the same sorts of things, so if you don't, I understand. On the upside, it does look as if the Gorendil "prequel" is leading my LiveJournal poll at the moment.)

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Epilogue: Beginnings

Aftermaths can be messy. In the movies they never show the part where you have to call in a work crew to clean out your flooded basement, or have to explain to your father why you got a bill for five grand to repair all the water damage. No, it's just boom! climax, and then everyone lives happily ever after.

Well, maybe they do get part of it right.

Anyway, after a minute or so Mike and I recovered enough to slog our way over to the stairs and then climb up the steps into the kitchen. By the time I was done I felt as if I'd just scaled Mount Everest. God knows how Mike managed it. Still, wet and chilled through as I was, the first thing I did was cross the living room and go out through the front door. Don't ask me why -- maybe I wanted to reassure myself that the rest of the world was still the same. Or maybe I just wanted to get a look at Will's car in order to feel some sort of connection with him. In any case, I stepped outside, blinking a little at the bright sunshine, then paused in the middle of the driveway and frowned.

I didn't see Will's car anywhere. Now, maybe he'd just been circumspect and had parked it a little further down the street, but he couldn't have left it too far away -- not with how quickly he had made it over to the house from All Saints. My shoes made unpleasant squishing noises as I limped down the driveway to the street and then looked in both directions. Still nothing -- after all, that black Barracuda would have stuck out like a sore thumb in our neighborhood of Acuras, BMWs, and big shiny SUVs.

But I didn't see anything in that sea of upscale beige and silver and white vehicles. I heard Mike slosh his way up behind me and stop. His soaked tennis shoes probably felt even worse than my flats. "What're you looking for?" he asked.

"Will's car. I don't see it anywhere."

He shot me an odd look, then said, "Well, maybe he borrowed someone else's car. Or parked around the corner. Why don't we come back out later and check again when we're not dripping wet?"

I supposed he had a point. Despite the warmth of the sun, I was starting to feel downright cold. The light breeze made my sodden clothes stick to me in unpleasant ways, and I shivered.

Our neighbor across the street, the retired librarian who thought Mike and I were "the cutest couple," chose that moment to come out and fetch her mail. Even from that distance I could see her eyes narrow as she took in our disheveled appearance. "Everything all right?" she called out.

"Fine, Mrs. Samuelson," Mike answered. "Some trouble with our hot water heater."

"Oh, dear," she said. "Did you call a plumber?"

"Yeah -- we just came out to see if he'd shown up yet." In an undertone, he said to me, "We should probably go back inside."

I nodded, then gave Mrs. Samuelson a half-hearted little wave. She smiled back, and then shook her head slightly. No doubt she wanted to offer more assistance but couldn't think of the best way to ask. She was a nice lady, although a few times during the past few months I'd thought wearily that it would have been nice if Mike had had a pair of standoffish yuppies living across the street instead of someone who didn't have any children of her own and obviously wanted to take us under her wing.

To avoid any further questions, I followed Mike back into the house. My brain kept picking away at the inexplicable absence of Will's car. Maybe Mike was right -- maybe he'd just parked around the corner where I couldn't see the car, or maybe he'd borrowed someone else's vehicle. Who knew?

Not really paying attention to what I was doing, I wandered into the bedroom and started to pull out a change of clothes. A hot shower would feel good. Maybe if I turned it up hot enough I could numb myself so that I couldn't feel this empty ache inside. I started to unbutton my damp blouse, then heard a throat-clearing noise.

I saw Mike standing there in the doorway to bedroom, looking awkward, and I suddenly realized the rules had changed a bit. Just because I'd done the same thing in front of Smike dozens of times didn't mean it was a very good idea now.

"Um...sorry," I said, and hurriedly rebuttoned my blouse. "Force of habit. Wasn't thinking."

"I can use the bathroom down the hall," he replied. His cheeks were flaming red.

Immediately I said, "No, that's all right. I mean -- this is your bathroom, and your room. I'll go down to the guest bath." And with that I scooped up my stuff and raced out of the bedroom, not wanting to meet Mike's eyes.

Since it was a guest bath, it did have some shampoo and soap in the shower stall. Not my own stuff, but I wasn't about to go back into our -- Mike's -- bathroom to retrieve mine. As I stepped into the shower, I thought that I should probably move my things out of the bedroom we shared and into the guest room. Then I paused, standing there for a moment as the hot water beat down on the back of my neck. What the hell was I thinking? Shouldn't I just grab my stuff and go back to my parents' house now that this was all over?

For some reason that idea didn't appeal to me at all. Odd as it might sound, some time over the past few months this house had become my home. Besides, with everything that had happened, I didn't think I could handle the fallout from suddenly announcing that the engagement was off. In time, maybe, but now...

...now all I wanted to do was cry. So I did, head bowed, as the unending stream of warm water cascaded through my hair and down my shoulders, mixing with my tears as I wept for Gorendil and Will and the loss of the man I thought I loved.

* * *

Mike didn't argue with me when I said I thought I should move into the guest bedroom for a time. If anything, he looked a little relieved, and that hurt for a minute until I realized he was probably just thankful I hadn't told him I planned to move out of the house completely. Not yet, at least. 

We did sort of a complicated little dance around one another, both of us overly solicitous of the other person, neither one sure exactly what to say. Since I was done with school and didn't have much going on otherwise, I sort of allowed myself to shut down. Mike told my parents and those of my friends who called the house that I'd caught the flu from him, and so everyone pretty much left me alone.

Having the workmen in to clean up the basement kept occupied Mike for a while; showing more presence of mind than I would have, he got them in awfully fast to pump away the worst of the standing water. My hair was still damp from my shower when they showed up, and I hid in the guest bedroom while the house echoed with the pounding of their equipment.

The next day another crew appeared to haul off all the shattered containers and broken racks. If they had questions, they obviously knew better than to ask Mike. Grim-faced, he accepted their invoice and watched in silence as they drove off in their big dump truck.

Frankly, I was so shattered by what had happened to me that it took me a while to stop and think how Mike must be feeling. After all, the guy had just spent almost three months being possessed by a malevolent entity who forced him to do and say things he never in his life would have done on his own volition. And here he was living with someone who had become his fiancée only under duress but who for some strange reason hadn't yet fled the scene. No wonder he gave me odd little looks from time to time, as if he wanted to ask what the hell what was going on with me but couldn't quite find the nerve.

As for me, well, after my weeping fit I moved around the house like a sleepwalker, not allowing myself to focus on anything for too long lest I give myself an opportunity to really stop and think about what had happened. I didn't know what to do about that horrible ache inside me. Obviously, talking about my loss with Mike seemed out of the question. That second night, though, after the workmen had gone and I'd managed to eat a few bites of the orange chicken Mike had ordered from the local Chinese restaurant because he knew it was my favorite, I sat in front of the TV, not really paying attention as Mike sort of channel-surfed, which was very unlike him. Usually he'd study the _TV Guide_, find what he wanted to watch (along with an alternate to jump to during the commercial breaks of his primary choice), and tune in on that. Unless, of course, he decided everything on TV was trash and pulled a DVD out of the archive instead, which tended to happen a lot.

For some reason he paused on a repeat of that old John Cusack movie, _Say Anything_. I don't know -- maybe he thought I'd do better with a chick flick than the usual action gore. And I was actually OK until it got to the part where Cusack's character stands outside the girl's room with that big boombox and plays "In Your Eyes." Then I just lost it. All of a sudden I started crying hysterically, great gasping sobs that felt as if they were being torn from somewhere so deep inside me I hadn't even known it existed until then. I was so blinded by tears that I didn't even realize Mike had gotten up from his seat and come over to the couch until I felt his arms go around me. It was the first real physical contact we'd had since we emerged from the basement the day before, but for some reason I didn't try to pull away. Actually, it felt good to have him hold me, to feel him gently stroke my hair while I cried myself out. Afterward, he didn't speak, but just let me pull away and flee into the guest bedroom. It should have been awkward, but strangely, it wasn't. Somehow he seemed to know that his silent comfort was what I had needed.

That night I actually managed to sleep, and when I woke the next day I felt almost human, although it still seemed strange to wake up alone in the guest room bed instead of the one I'd shared with Smike for the past few months. You get used to sleeping with someone, after all, the sound of their breathing, the little movements they make, even the obnoxious way Smike used to steal all the covers.

I padded out to the kitchen, and while I saw evidence that Mike had been up already -- he'd left half a pot of coffee for me, and the morning paper was still spread across the dining room table -- I didn't see him anywhere. Although I'd overslept, it was still fairly early, just a little before nine o'clock.

Not knowing what else to do, I got myself some coffee and settled myself down at the dining room table to take a look at the paper. For obvious reasons I hadn't paid much attention to what was happening in the world lately, but as I picked up the local section, I got the sudden idea that maybe I'd see something about Will in there. After all, he'd been a fairly prominent figure at All Saints. Shouldn't there be one of those little pieces toward the back of the paper with a headline like "Local Clergyman Missing -- Foul Play Suspected" or something similar?

As I sat there, puzzling over the mystery, Mike emerged from the laundry room, which meant he'd probably been down in the basement. God knows why. I knew I couldn't have brought myself to go back in there. Although I knew intellectually that Sauron's gateway had been destroyed, I still didn't want to go anywhere near the spot where it had stood. The portal where Will had disappeared.

In his hand Mike held the little tachyon detector Sauron had built. I raised an inquiring eyebrow, and Mike said, "I figured I'd use this to get some readings. But it's clean -- I couldn't detect anything. Whatever energy was gathered there has been completely dispersed."

"Well, thank God for that," I remarked. Then I laid the paper down and asked, "Mike, how long does it take before someone's reported as missing?"

He didn't bother to inquire as to which missing person interested me. Instead, frowning slightly, he replied, "It depends on how long it takes for someone to notice that they're missing. I think it has to be at least forty-eight hours or something, though."

Barely that much time had passed since Will Gordon had come to my rescue, but surely someone would have noticed his absence almost immediately. After all, he'd told me that he had appointments scheduled for most of the day he'd disappeared -- surely one of those people would have commented that he hadn't shown up and hadn't been seen since early that afternoon?

"Oh," I said, feeling a little deflated. Even if someone had reported Will missing, it wasn't the sort of thing the papers would have picked up on yet.

The weird thing was that Mike and I had never been able to locate Will's car. After we'd gotten ourselves cleaned up, Mike had driven us all the way around the block, but we hadn't seen the Barracuda. In San Marino there's no overnight parking on the street without a permit, and Mike had even gone back out a little before six to see if there were any unfamiliar vehicles on our block that had gotten parking tickets, but no soap. It was as if Will had flown over here or something.

"I was trying to figure out what to do with this," Mike said, and laid the tachyon detector down on the dining room table.

I eyed it uneasily. The thing looked completely innocuous, but I couldn't forget that Sauron had built it.

"I thought that was your ticket to the Nobel prize or something," I said, but the quip sounded feeble even to me.

"Maybe," Mike replied, sounding thoughtful. "But I didn't really make it, did I? I was thinking maybe I should just destroy it."

"Destroy it? Why?"

He ran a hand through his hair, the way he always did when he got distracted. Since it didn't look as if he'd combed it since he rolled out of bed that morning, his action just made it stand up even more. A faint dusting of stubble covered his jaw; obviously he'd gotten up, thrown on some jeans and a sweatshirt, and had gone directly into the basement. He was a rumpled mess, but also disturbingly cute.

"It's one thing to talk about this stuff in a theoretical way," he said. His expression darkened. "But now..."

"Now?" I asked, feeling a little confused. "I mean, Drew told me that alternate universes and all that stuff were your passion. So what changed that?"

Mike turned brooding dark eyes on me. For a few seconds he didn't say anything. Then he replied, "Because now I know what's waiting on the other side."

A chill worked its way up my spine, and I stared down at my neglected coffee. I didn't know what to say to that, because it was the simple truth, after all.

Without speaking, Mike reached down and picked up the tachyon detector, and then disappeared back into the laundry room. A few minutes of silence followed, and then I heard an abrupt pounding noise. At first I couldn't figure out what he was up to, and then I realized the sound must be Mike going at the tachyon detector with a hammer or mallet, smashing it out of existence. If only it were as easy to destroy the rest of the fallout from Sauron's interference...

* * *

The next day I drove over to Will's house. I know that sounds crazy, but somehow I needed to see it. Besides, maybe I could get one of his neighbors to say something about his mysterious disappearance. Grasping at straws, absolutely, but a lack of closure drives me nuts faster than just about anything else. 

It was another mild, early winter day. A little cooler than it had been, maybe, but still a far cry from the storm that had hit us a week ago. I parked in front of the house next door to Will's, then got out and approached the place. Then I stopped dead, staring up at it in confusion.

Oh, it looked about the same -- a big brown Craftsman-style home with a smooth green front lawn and flower beds bordering the front walk. But instead of the somewhat scrubby irises and poppies that had bloomed there earlier, these flower beds had been planted for the season with rows of poinsettias. A large wreath hung from the front door, and I could see strings of unlit icicle lights hanging from the eaves.

The biggest difference, however, were the two little girls playing in the front yard. They had a plastic pail full of that thick chalk kids use to mark up sidewalks, and they were busily sketching out a hopscotch grid on the cement walkway that led to the front door. I'm not very good at estimating kids' ages, but I figured they were probably around five and seven, give or take.

"Um, hi!" I called out uncertainly. I stayed on the sidewalk, a few inches back from the start of the pathway in front of the house. The last thing I needed was for someone to come out and give me a ration of crap for trespassing or something.

The older of the two girls looked up at me. She had light brown hair pulled back into a sloppy ponytail and big brown eyes. Planting her hands on her hips, she gave me a direct look and said, "I'm not supposed to talk to strangers."

Great. Somehow I managed to manufacture a smile and slap it on. Then I said, "Well, my name's Sarah. Am I a stranger if you know my name?"

She paused to consider that. "I dunno."

Well, this was going to take all day. My brain was trying to figure out what on earth they'd be doing here. Will had told me he wasn't married, and I had believed him. Then where the hell had these two kids come from? Then I suddenly recalled how he'd mentioned he had a sister. Maybe that sister had kids. Maybe they'd come out here to try to find out about Will.

"Are you staying here at your Uncle Will's house?" I asked.

That question just got me a puzzled look. The girl poked a considering finger into the gap in her mouth where her front tooth should have been, then said, "I don't have an Uncle Will. We live here with our mommy and daddy. I have an Uncle Jason, though," she added, as if she'd somehow picked up on the look of consternation that I felt cross my face.

What the hell was going on? I knew this was Will's house -- I'd been through a lot the past few days, but I wasn't so stupid that I couldn't match an address. Anyway, the rest of the house looked pretty much the same, except for the minor alterations I'd already noted, so it was obviously the same place.

"How long have you lived here?" Stupid question, I suppose -- even if Will had been declared dead in such a short an amount of time, which I highly doubted, I didn't think another family could have moved in and gotten settled quite _that_ fast.

The girl's brown eyes widened. At that point her little sister spoke up. "Mommy brought me home from the hospital here. After they took me out of her tummy," she added helpfully.

So OK -- that meant they had to have lived here for at least five years. Which also meant it couldn't have been Will's house, at least not the house where I had sat in the cozy yellow kitchen with him, or where I'd seen a hole poked in the garage roof by an unfriendly tree branch.

Head swimming, I said, "OK -- thanks," and backed away. I felt as if I were going to faint, but somehow I managed to make it back inside my car. Then I sat there in the driver's seat, staring out through the windshield without really seeing anything. How could any of this be happening? Had the world gone completely insane?

After a few minutes, I felt steady enough to drive. I turned the key in the ignition, pulled away from the curb, and headed back down Los Robles toward All Saints.

It looked exactly the same, thank God...at least until I wandered down the shabby hallway where Will's office was located. I paused outside his door, and stared at the unfamiliar words on the nameplate. "Fr. Joseph Michelson." What the hell?

"Can I help you?"

I turned to see an older man wearing a clerical collar looking at me with kind dark eyes. "Um...I'm not sure," I replied. "I'm looking for Father Gordon. I thought this was his office?"

"Father Gordon, you say?" the priest asked. "We don't have anyone with that name on our staff here. Are you sure he was with All Saints?"

Was I sure of anything anymore? I didn't know what to say, but it seemed obvious to me that Will Gordon had left no more of a mark here at his church than he had at the home he had once occupied. "My mistake," I mumbled, then fled, ignoring the man's worried question as to whether I was all right.

Unfortunately, I was far from all right.

Since I didn't know what else to do, I poured out my story to Mike once I got home. He'd been sitting in the living room with his laptop, that rapid-fire typing I remembered so well coming to my ears even as I entered the house, but he immediately put the computer aside once he saw the look on my face.

Once I was finished, he sat quietly for a minute, a frown pulling at his brows. Then he said, "It sounds like a complete collapse of that particular wave function."

If I hadn't been so close to hysteria, I might have laughed. Instead, I just snapped, "English, please!"

He shrugged. "Sorry, but that _is_ English -- it's just physics. All I'm saying is that maybe once Will had done what he was meant to do, the particulars of his existence erased themselves."

"So you're saying it's like he never existed?" How could that be possible? I remembered everything about him -- the sound of that Massachusetts accent of his, the way the lines at the corners of his eyes crinkled when he smiled...the feel of his lips on mine.

"Not exactly. It's a little more complicated than that." Mike pushed himself to the edge of the couch and faced me, fingers tapping against his knees as he appeared to work through the problem. "You remember him, because you knew him in his true state in Middle Earth. And I remember him because I had Sauron living in my brain for three months, and of course Sauron knew him from Middle Earth as well. But everyone else -- " He lifted a hand and made a waving gesture, as if to indicate the rest of the world outside -- "They have no reason to remember him, because once he'd done what he needed to do, once he'd saved you and left this universe, that particular wave function ceased to exist."

My brain tried to unravel all this and promptly gave up. I repeated, "So you're saying he never really existed."

"It's not that simple, Sarah." To my surprise, he reached out and took my hands in his. His fingers felt warm against mine, which were chilled with shock. For a second I thought about pulling away, but I decided that I actually liked the warmth of his hands against mine. It made me feel a little less alone. "He existed for you. Somehow, through whatever force or mechanics or grace or whatever you want to call it, he came into being here to stop Sauron, to free you. I don't know if it was God or Eru or the power of love." After he said that, Mike's mouth tightened a little. Patient and understanding he'd been -- more than I could have imagined, actually -- but no man likes to think about the woman he loves being in love with someone else. "Maybe it was the one last thing he had to do to tip the cosmic balance sheet back in his favor. Maybe now he can finally rest." He sighed, and lifted his shoulders once again. "But I don't know for sure. This is all just speculation."

Possibly, but somehow Mike's words comforted me more than I thought they would. Oh, the pain was still there, along with my disbelief that someone so real could have been ripped from the fabric of the world with no one apparently noticing. If nothing else, however, my experiences had taught me that it really was possible to believe six impossible things before breakfast and all that. Besides, the idea that Will might have finally found absolution for the Lord of the Nazgûl's endless years of evil made the ache a little easier to bear.

"So what now?" I asked finally, feeling a little helpless.

Mike's hands tightened on mine. "Make his sacrifice mean something," he said.

And I did. I'm not saying it was easy; despite Mike's hypothesis for what had happened to Will, I kept checking the newspaper, one portion of my mind telling me that there was no way he could have been pulled from the fabric of this world without a few dangling threads left behind. But I found nothing. And as the days and eventually weeks went on, I realized I never would.

One odd thing, happened, though. I was in Old Pasadena doing some last-minute Christmas shopping a week later, and I actually passed crazy physicist Rupert as I headed down Raymond toward the parking structure where I'd left my car. The pale blue eyes fastened on me, and for a second I thought I saw the faintest flicker of recognition there. But then he just shook his head and disappeared into Lucky Baldwin's. I guess some things never change.

And some things do. Or maybe it's just that they finally become clear.

I hadn't been able to understand what Will had been driving at that last time we met in his offices, but as the days passed and I still couldn't bring myself to move back in with my parents, I finally began to realize what it was that he'd been trying to tell me.

Love doesn't always come thundering in on a big white horse, sweeping you away like a heroine on the cover of one of those bodice-rippers my mother doesn't think I know she reads and which she hides in her nightstand drawer. Sometimes it comes quietly, surrounding you like the sudden warmth you feel when you come home on a cold winter night and pull a blanket around you. And then you turn, and find it unlooked for in the face of a friend.

I've been to Middle Earth and back. I've seen things no one in this world should have ever been forced to witness. I've known the love of a man the world once thought lost, and lived to see his redemption. Yet with all the terror and glory, the doubt and pain, I find that at last I've come full circle, and have found love in the arms of my dearest friend.

I've come home.


End file.
